


A Most Cautious Correspondence

by quillandsaber



Series: Learning to Love [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920s gender norms, 1920s social norms, AU Newt's Backstory (probably), Developing Relationship, F/M, Historical Reality Without Sugarcoating, Jewish Jacob Kowalski, as per my beta "snails driving a glacier through a school zone" slow burn, cultural Judaism, seriously there is no on-screen romance in this story, wait for the sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillandsaber/pseuds/quillandsaber
Summary: On Christmas Eve, the elder Miss Goldstein received an unexpected letter carried by the most exotic owl she'd ever laid eyes on.Rated T for certain historical realities of life in poverty in 1920s New York City.  No sexual or violent content.





	1. Yorkshire

Christmas Eve was such an odd time to be nominally Jewish in the wizarding world.  Of course, Tina and Queenie had their share of office Christmas parties that they'd attended with good humor, but at home on a day Queenie was off and Tina was last on the on-call list, the Goldstein sisters faced one of the most popular celebrations in both worlds armed with cocoa and popular mystery novels to kill time until a reasonable hour for bed.

Until an insistent tapping on their window broke the companionable silence.

"I'll get it," Queenie said dully, uncurling herself from her chair.  "How much do you want to bet it's a Christmas card from Mr. Abernathy?"

"Ten Sprinks," Tina said, not looking up from her book.  "But I'd put twenty on it being from—"

"Oh, Teenie, you've got to see this owl!"

The brunette witch placed her bookmark (she  _ would _ be interrupted just when she was getting to an interesting part) and turned around only to see what had to be the largest, most colorful owl she'd ever seen in her life.

"Isn't he just beautiful?  And Teenie, it's addressed to you!"  Queenie bounced, untying the letter from the bird's ankle with deft fingers before handing it to her sister.  Surely enough, there was her name in formal but shaky characters:  _ Miss Porpentina Goldstein, somewhere in New York City, U.S.A. _

"Gosh, Teenie, is that from Europe?"  Tina ignored her sister's questioning as she opened the letter and began to read.

_ Dear Miss Goldstein, _

_ I hope this letter finds you and your sister in good health.  My ship landed in Liverpool this morning after an uneventful voyage, and I will be heading to London shortly; the first order of business is to have the latch on my case reinforced to avoid any future incidents.  If this reaches you before Christmas, Happy Christmas to you; if not, may you have a Happy New Year. _

_ I was wondering if I might ask a favour of you.  At the risk of confessing to questionably-legal interactions with a No-Mag (or is it spelt No-Maj? You'll have to tell me) to a newly-reinstated officer of the law, I have reason to believe that shortly before my departure, our friend Jacob came into possession of valuable goods, courtesy of an anonymous benefactor, and will thus be able to start his bakery business.  I understand this is a rather large request, but would you look in, if you have the time, and tell me how it is doing? _

_ Please excuse the faults which this letter contains. Picket is fond of clinging to the quill as I write. _

_ Respectfully, _

_ Newton Scamander _

_ P.S. Nigel has a habit of begging for treats even when it's not good for him.  Don't fall for the mooncalf-eyes; he'll make himself ill on them if given the chance. _

"You have to remember he's shy and damaged, Teenie," Queenie, who'd obviously picked up on her sister's confusion, said dreamily.  "He probably thought he'd be pushing it too far to ask to see you again  _ and _ ask to write to you at the same time."

Tina stared at the stilted letter in her hand some more.  "I thought it was understood, though.  He would have had to write to me anyways to let me know when to expect him with the book.  He didn't need an excuse to write."

"Being an expert in dealing with magical creatures doesn't make someone an expert at dealing with the fairer sex.  Write him back something warm and inviting.  He'll get the message."  The blonde smiled beatifically as she dug through one of the desk drawers.  "Jacob's bakery…I wonder if he'll have strudel."

"Queenie…"

"I'm not thinking about...that.  Patronizing a business belonging to a No-Maj you happen to have known before they were Obliviated is technically considered necessary daily business," Queenie said with a sniff.  "In any case, you have a letter to write."  She whirled around with quill and parchment, setting them down with finality in front of her sister.  "Remember…warm and inviting."

"I've never written anything warm and inviting in my life.  I can barely  _ say _ warm and inviting," Tina protested.

"You're warm and inviting enough that he asked if he could travel all the way across the Atlantic to hand-deliver a book you'd be able to buy at Inker's," Queenie pointed out.  "I know you like to think of yourself as a hardened career girl, but it'd do you good to find someone you can be soft for."

"But—"

"Not another word until the letter's written," the blonde said firmly.  "And you can stop worrying about Leta Lestrange.  I've heard enough to know he's not the kind of man to string along a girl on each continent, and besides, she hurt him very badly."

Tina sighed and stared at the parchment.  She could do this.  If she could lay down twelve curses in under a second without saying a word, she could write a letter that would convince Mr. Newt Scamander to write her back.  Before she could lose her nerve (not like writing letters to an unconventionally-attractive foreigner would make her lose her nerve, oh no) she grabbed the quill and began to scribble her thoughts as they came to her.

_ Dear Mr. Scamander, _

_ Thank you for your letter; it arrived on the 24th, so your Christmas well-wishes are appreciated and returned.  I'm glad to hear you reached England safely, and I'm doubly glad you're getting that latch fixed!  Are you staying in England until the book is published? _

_ Queenie and I have spent a little time looking for Jacob over the last few weeks, strictly to follow up on the Obliviation, you understand.  We haven't seen anything so far to indicate he's opened a bakery, but we'll keep looking around.  I expect it's taking him some time to get everything set up; No-Maj shops have a tendency to take weeks to turn from empty storefronts to open businesses.  For future reference, as long as the valuable goods the No-Maj was given aren't magical in substance, there's technically nothing illegal about providing them to a No-Maj.  Technically.  Largely because I doubt there has ever been a case of a wizard or witch wanting to give a non-magical item of substantial value to a No-Maj before, so no one has thought to write a law about it. _

_ (Please don't tell me you gave him an Erumpent horn, because I would really rather not have to investigate you professionally.) _

_ Say hello to Picket for me; Queenie sends her greetings to you. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Porpentina Goldstein _

_ P.S.  I've never sent an owl transatlantic before, and I don't think I've seen an owl of Nigel's species before.  He looked fine when he got here and when he left, but is there anything I should know to do in the future?  _

Tina looked over the letter.  It didn't seem...warm, not really, but it didn't sound cold either.  And she was pretty sure asking a question (particularly about something non-human) was a clear invitation for a reply.  Well, at the end of the day, he'd either decide she was worth writing back to or not; no use trying to sound like anyone other than herself.  She sighed, folding the parchment and writing the address on the back side:  _ Mr. N. Scamander, Current Location Unknown but Most Likely Britain _ .  "Here goes nothing."

* * *

 

 

Two weeks later in rural Yorkshire, a very exhausted owl belonging to a species never normally seen in the area silently slipped into what looked from the outside like an abandoned barn.  The interior, however, was far from abandoned, containing no less than ten Bowtruckles, two Nifflers, three Augureys, and one bedraggled man bent intently over a stack of parchment resting on an upturned manger that was serving as a makeshift desk.  The owl landed heavily on one of the manger legs and hooted loudly, interrupting the man's concentration.  He blinked briefly, then seemed to register the carefully-folded parchment tied to the bird's claw and immediately rushed to retrieve the letter and open it up.

The man glanced briefly at the contents of the letter, grinned like a schoolboy, and stuffed the parchment into his pocket.

"All right, Nigel.  Let's look you over and get you a decent meal; looks like you're going to be doing a lot more flying than you ever expected."


	2. The North Atlantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've received a lot of positive feedback on the first chapter, so this is officially a multichap fic! For the sake of the story, I am accepting the premise that the Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them book published by JK Rowling is substantially shorter and incomplete compared to the "real" book. There will also be vaguely-reasonable speculation about Newt's life before Fantastic Beasts which will probably be proved wrong in future films; I've read the current Harry Potter wiki summary on him, and it makes no sense (two Sickles a week isn't just measly wages; it's literally unliveably low) and completely ignores his participation in WWI, so I'm being selective there.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_I can safely promise you to never trade in Erumpent horns, either attached or detached from their owners.  Joseph Kowalski received a clutch's worth of Occamy eggs; silver is silver to_ _~~Muggle~~ _ _No-Maj or wizard, so technically within the letter of the law.  Technically.  I'm sure they've been melted down now in any case._

_I've met with my publisher about the book.  There are some questions of "authorial style" which we are wrangling at the moment, as well as what sections need expanding before it's worth printing.  Based on where we last left the subject, it seems likely I'll be travelling to Brazil by the end of January to study the Tupi fire-serpent in greater detail, but otherwise it's nearly ready._

_Have you enjoyed returning to your work as an Auror?  I expect there's much of your work you can't write about for security's sake, but I have always been curious about the profession.  My brother works as an Auror, you see, but we haven't talked since the War._

_Nigel is a Blakiston's fish owl.  They're native to Japan, but I purchased him from a breeder in Hong Kong.  If he looks particularly exhausted, it would be best to give him a rest before asking him to make a delivery, but as long as he's healthy he ought to be able to manage a quick return journey.  I've enclosed a brief care guide for his species in case he arrives to you injured; I hope you shall never need it._

_Sincerely,_

_Newton Scamander_

"Teenie, I found it!  I found Mr. Kowalski's bakery, and you're not going to believe the pastries!"  Queenie bustled into the apartment, the telltale crinkling of paper bags making Tina's stomach sink.  Had she gone and bought out the shop?  It was so critical that they maintain a low profile—

"I didn't buy _that_ many pastries, but you _need_ to see these.  Mr. Scamander's letter can wait."

 _That_ made Tina drop the parchment immediately and rush out of the bedroom.  "Oh lordy, Queenie, are we really going to eat that many?" she said as she surveyed a truly alarming number of packages.

"You need to see them all.  Look!"  Queenie started unwrapping the nearest packet and revealed…

"Is that a Mooncalf?"

Queenie nodded.  "And there's a Demiguise, and an Occamy...Teenie, that means he _remembers_.  The rain didn't work on him!"

Tina shook her head to clear it, praying she was just seeing things, but no—the strange creature-shaped pastries still stared at her from their wrappings.  "That's not possible.  We would have heard something if the rain hadn't worked," she protested.  "A third of Manhattan was outright destroyed, and not a single No-Maj has even started a conspiracy theory.  It has to be a coincidence."

"Porpentina Goldstein, it is not a coincidence!" Queenie said insistently.  "He's not like other No-Majs, I told you before.  Maybe whatever makes him read so nice to me makes him resistant to Obliviation."

"It's...possible."  Tina really didn't have the heart to crush Queenie when she looked so hopeful, but she'd literally never heard of such a thing as an Obliviation-resistant No-Maj, and it seemed almost impossible that such a trait could have remained unnoticed in the States for so long.  "Maybe take a trip to the library to see if you can find a book on it.  I'll take a peek in the Auror archives tomorrow during my lunch hour, but I doubt there's anything there."

"Thanks awfully, Teenie," the blonde gushed with all sincerity.  "You're swell.  Now, what's Mr. Scamander got to say?"

 

* * *

 

Most of MACUSA was down to skeleton staff on Sundays, but not the Auror office.  After a night's sleep frequently disturbed by intrusive thoughts of what dire implications would arise from a No-Maj being non-Obliviable, Tina found herself cursing the fact that magic-wielding criminals rarely seemed to care whether or not they were breaking laws on weekdays during normal business hours.  She'd had just enough coffee at home to be able to safely Apparate to the office, but the headache that was already blooming behind her eyes as she trudged to her desk told her that her first order of business would be going to the break room for another cup before she even attempted to do anything useful.

Her cubby, as Queenie called it, was located deep in the Auror Office's mazes of file cabinets, and this was not the first time she found herself also cursing the fact she'd asked for the quietest workspace available when she'd started working there.  Once she turned the last corner, she found a sizeable stack of papers that had managed to appear since Friday evening.  This was clearly _not_ going to be a day she was going to write to Mr. Scamander about if he wanted to know about Auror work.  He'd probably only asked to be polite, but the man was going to be exploring the Amazon learning things about magical creatures that no one before him had discovered; she owed him at least a mildly-entertaining story of Auror duties.

She flopped in her desk chair for a minute to put herself together.  Composure, then coffee, then paperwork.  Then prayers that some kind of call would come in and she'd be out in the city, doing what she did best.

"Goldstein, a word."

"Mr. Graves!" Tina shot straight up from her desk, headache forgotten.  She'd heard that the real Percival Graves had been found, having been kept captive in his own home for close to six months, but she hadn't heard that he was returning to the job.  It was disconcerting to see him now, undeniably himself (sharp, elegantly-dressed) but noticeably thinner and more careworn for his time with Grindelwald.

"It's about the Barebone boy, or children like him."  Graves placed a thick manila folder on her desk.  "Now that they know Grindelwald's people could be looking for potential Obscurials, they're expanding the Office of Children's Services.  The new goal is to tag every wizard born to No-Maj parents before they turn five and watch them like hawks in case they need to be grabbed before they start school.  The President has asked me to tap a few Aurors who could go along when situations look ugly."

"Are you tapping me?"

"I'd like to," Mr Graves said, folding his arms as he leaned against her filing-cabinet bulwark.  "They're asking for people with Auror reflexes and accuracy who can disable a parent long enough to grab a kid before he blows and get him to calm down without doing permanent damage in the process, and from what I've heard you're good at dealing with the kids.  OCS outlined proposed procedures here if you want to look at them."  He nodded in the direction of the folder.  "They don't think they'd pull you from normal duty more than once or twice a year.  Think about it for the rest of the morning, will you?"  He turned to leave her alone.

No need for coffee when adrenaline would do, Tina supposed, flipping open the folder.  The top page bore the heading _The Credence Barebone Initiative_ in stark letters, stunning her into stillness.  So this was the boy's memorial, a government program.  She swallowed and blinked the sudden dampness out of her eyes.  That poor kid.  She'd tried not to think of him as much as possible because of how sick it made her feel to remember how everything had gone so wrong for him.  First abused, then saved for a moment, then abused, then manipulated, then destroyed.  All for something completely outside of his control, something she should have noticed the first time she met him.  She'd never regret interfering, but until the day she died she'd regret not looking deeper, not following up properly.

Tina's mind was made up.  She marched through the labyrinth up towards Mr. Grave's door, knocked twice, and waited for the marble to swing open.

"Goldstein?"

"Mr. Graves, I accept."

He glanced up.  "Good. I'll send the memo."

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I'm pleased to report that we've found Kowalski's Bakery over in Brooklyn.  Well, Queenie found it, and I've passed by a few times because the line is usually out the door and I rarely have time to wait.  He's doing well, though that Murtlap bite is still quite visible.  I'll keep an eye on it until it heals completely.  Are there any long-lasting effects you're aware of that I should look for?_

_Auror work is as usual—I promise, the ratio of paperwork to fieldwork is higher than anyone who hasn't worked in an Auror office would believe—though things have calmed down after the rush that happened when Grindelwald was captured. I think it's because there've been several new recruits added to the force as insurance.  My duties have crossed out of the office a little; they're expanding the Office of Children's Services (I don't know if your Ministry has an equivalent office; its sole responsibility is dealing with underage witches and wizards, particularly those born to No-Maj families), and I've signed on to assist in rescuing children at risk for an Obscurus.  If all goes the way we hope, there won't ever be another Credence who grows up with powers he can't control or understand, at least in this country._

~~_If you write your book the same way you write your letters, your publisher can shove it on "authorial style"._ ~~

_I'm writing to you on the 20th of January, so I suppose this will probably reach you either during your voyage or in Brazil.  Nigel's had a few days good rest (and has thoroughly terrorized the squirrels in the neighborhood) so I think he should be all right.  Please stay safe on your expedition._

_Sincerely,_

_Porpentina Goldstein_

 

* * *

 

The _Hippolyta_ was three days away from São Luís when a strange bird began circling the ship.  If any of the passengers noted it, they assumed it had to be a trick of the light, making a common gull look gold and black and oddly-shaped in the sunset.  One man, who had taken to spending as much time on-deck as possible much to the consternation of the sailors, seemed to take this as his cue to go below deck.  If anyone noticed a porthole changing shape to allow the bird to fly inside the ship, they said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://www.birdquest-tours.com/galleryImages/ai_1182979023828.jpg) is Nigel. The correct name for his species today is Blakiston's eagle owl (DNA research reclassified the species), but in the 1920s they were called Blakiston's fish owls, so that's what Newt calls them.


	3. Brazil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this chapter is quite a bit more serious than the prior ones. I hope to keep things from getting too dark because sweet fluffiness is better for my mental health, but life's not life without conflict, and Cinnamon Roll Newt has his raisins (I say this as a person who likes raisins in her cinnamon rolls).
> 
> Special thanks to my beta Melissa, who's been putting up with my writing for twelve years now.
> 
> God, I feel old now.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_I am writing to you from an unnamed location in the Amazon.  I've seen evidence of some Tupi fire-serpents in the area, but they prefer to remain less-than-visible most of the time and are rather firmly nocturnal.  My publisher recently decided that the book will publish by the end of the year, though, regardless of the completeness of my research on Tupi fire-serpents, but I hope to have a more complete description of their habits before it must rush to print._

_I'm truly grateful to hear that Jacob is doing well.  I wouldn't worry too much about the Murtlap bite. I gave him an antidote later that evening to stop the sweats, which he responded to well.  Any venom should be entirely out of his system by now even considering_ _~~Muggle~~ _ _No-Maj physiology; there's some slight differences, but they are_ _slight_ _._

_If I may say so, I am glad to hear that you have not had many dark wizards to chase around New York and that there is sincere effort being put forth to prevent Obscuri from forming.  I hope your assistance is never needed, but if the time should come, I am sure you will do marvelously.  Credence listened to you, and I am sure Zeinab would have listened to you had you been there for her._

_Sincerely,_

_Newton Scamander_

* * *

 

 

Tina sat straight up in bed.  Her head and body were screaming at her that this was not the right time to get up (it had to be in the wee hours) but her alarm clock was ringing loud enough to wake the dead, and Nigel was hooting in disgruntled accompaniment in the next room.  The flashing red light wasn't making her feel any less nauseous.  She looked over to Queenie's bed, where her sister was groaning and rolling herself into a seated position.  What on earth—

The sisters' eyes met, and everything suddenly clicked into place.  Alarm clock going off unexpectedly.  The face of the alarm clock flashing bright red.  That wasn't the alarm clock malfunctioning; it was an emergency signal.

She was being called into the office, and it was for something terrible.

Tina wracked her brain for the security procedures that'd been drilled into her head early in her Auror training.  "Ward the place as soon as I Apparate out, and keep Nigel in," Tina said in a rush as she shoved bare feet into her shoes, not bothering to change out of her pajamas.  "I'll get word to you as soon as I get a chance."

Queenie, who'd hopped out of bed as soon as Tina had, shoved Tina's coat in her hands and gave her a quick hug.  "Be safe."

"I'll try."  She took quick inventory: shoes, coat, (grab from the bedside table) wand.  "If I don't come back—"

"I know, Teenie."  Queenie tried to smile through her worry.

Tina closed her eyes tightly.   _MACUSA entrance hall.  First floor.  Woolworth building._

With a small pop, she was gone.

\--

As soon as she opened her eyes, she looked up to the magical exposure threat meter: red.  It wasn't a mistake. The pops and cracks around her as more witches and wizards appeared in the entrance hall confirmed that this was no malfunction.  Surveying the forming crowd, she could tell most the entire department was there, most in some combination of pajamas and outerwear; Mr. Graves, standing distinct in his three-piece suit in the middle of the inner pavilion, being the notable exception.  Tina's stomach felt heavy with dread.  There were few reasons to call the entire department in in the middle of the night, and only one of them was likely.

"We are officially in red alert," Mr. Graves said, needing no amplification spell to make himself heard.  "Grindelwald has escaped, and one guard at Roanoke Penitentiary died in the process.  We don't know how he did it.  We don't know if he's got a wand.  We don't know if he had help.  Investigation squad, you're coming with me.  Everyone else, emergency stations.  Move out."

The majority of the crowd Disapparated in a prolonged crack that echoed through the foyer, leaving the twenty members of the investigation squad to rush down the staircase after their leader.  Goodness, was she glad she'd thought to wear proper shoes; Yates (one of the older Aurors still active, balding and rather plump) had evidently shoved on his wife's slippers in his haste, and Nilsson (newly-immigrated Swede, short and stout enough he had to be part dwarf) was entirely barefoot.  They wove down the stairs, through the cabinet labyrinth, and came to a sliding halt in the Auror supply offices where Mr. Graves stood in front of a high table on which lay an old-fashioned carriage wheel.

"Grab a broom," he ordered.  "We've set up this portkey for the northern point of Roanoke to go off in ninety seconds, but it's brooms from there to the penitentiary.  No one's to set foot on the ground until we're sure there's no prints."

Tina grabbed one of the brooms from the wall behind her (they were all reliable models that were younger than her, so she didn't really care which one she got), squeezing between Yates and Nilsson to get a good grip on the wheel.

"Ten seconds until takeoff!"

"Think there's a possibility he's still there?" someone whispered.

"Nah," another quiet voice answered, "he got taken down before by the force.  He woulda run for it, left the country.  Might've gone to Europe, settle some grudges."

"Five, four, three, two…"

While Tina tried to ignore the discomfort of the Portkey, she couldn't help but pray using words she hadn't uttered since her father died that Gellert Grindelwald was not currently out scouring the Amazon for an English wizard who had no idea what kind of danger he was in.

\--

They found nothing.  Not a footprint.  Not even a white-blond hair.  None of the other prisoners in Roanoke Penitentiary had heard a word (which Tina was willing to believe; the only way you'd get that many noxious people to agree on something is if it was true).  If the guard hadn't died, it would have looked like Grindelwald had simply vanished from his cell.

The next few days that followed were still red alerts.  When no national monuments were destroyed and no No-Maj political figures turned up brutally murdered in the immediate aftermath, things slid back into an anxious version of normality, albeit with massive sleep deficit from the law enforcement department.  Then the foreign offices started pouring in.  Every member government to the International Confederation of Wizards sent agents to gather what information they could on Grindelwald for, no matter how embarrassing it was to have someone escape America's highest-security prison, two months was still longer than any other government managed to hold him...and no one wanted to be unprepared if Grindelwald decided to make their country his new base of operations.  It was a madhouse of report-gathering, and Tina was starting to feel sick of it.

"Goldstein, my office.  British Auror Office wants to ask you a few questions about the capture."

Tina nodded and got up from her paperwork mountain to follow her boss.  This was becoming part of the routine; most of the foreign officials wanted to ask her at least a few questions about Grindelwald's original capture.  She wasn't entirely sure why it was her they cared to speak to when she hadn't played much of a bigger role than the Aurors who were there actually functioning as Aurors, but if they thought she had some insight the written briefs didn't, then she'd talk to every single one of them until she was blue in the face.  Just so long as Grindelwald got caught again and _stayed_ caught.

When Mr. Graves opened the office door and ushered her in, her Auror training kicked in as she tried to track every detail of the wizard inside, presumably from the British Ministry.  Average height, narrow build.  White-blond hair (what was it with European wizards and colorless hair?), green eyes, pale without visible freckles or moles, a well-faded scar near his left temple.  Tina supposed he would have been considered generally handsome, but there was steel in his spine and his jaw that hardened him in a way that made her strangely uncomfortable.

"Mr. Scamander, this is Porpentina Goldstein, one of my Aurors.  Goldstein, Theseus Scamander, head of the British Auror Office."  He turned to the younger man.  "Take all the time you need."  Mr. Graves pulled the marble door shut, and they were left alone.

Tina stared.  This was the brother Mr. Scamander had mentioned, the war hero who apparently was an exceedingly talented Auror.  And he wanted to talk to her.  Why would he want to talk to a _stranger_ when his _brother_ , who'd basically masterminded the entire thing, was just an owl away?  She couldn't think of anything to say to start the conversation, rather awkwardly rocking back on her heels while she waited for some kind of indication of what he wanted.

Finally, he put her out of her misery.  "Miss Goldstein," he began in a voice much deeper than her Mr. Scamander's, "I have been informed you were instrumental in the original capture of Gellert Grindelwald, collaborating with a Mr. Newton Scamander in the process.  Records indicate that he attempted to argue for your acquittal after being sentenced to death for violating the International Statute of Secrecy and that he spoke strongly in your favor after the capture, thus leading to your reinstatement."

She nodded.

"Newton is my brother," he said succinctly.  "We have never been what one might call close, and neither I nor any of the family have heard anything from him since the War.  I hope you will understand I ask this out of familial concern rather than a desire to meddle in your private affairs, but have you communicated with him whatsoever since he left New York in December?"

Tina had to work hard to keep her face schooled.  She remembered Mr. Scamander writing that he hadn't spoken with his brother since the teens, but not _writing_?  To _anybody_ he was related to?  The man had written her three letters after he'd known her for all of a week before he'd sailed away.  He was writing a _book_.  Clearly it wasn't the act of writing itself that had stopped him.

Theseus Scamander was waiting for a reply, so she straightened up and looked him in the eye.  "I have."  She refused to offer any more detail.  Something about this was not right, but she could not tell what it was.

"By owl?"

Safe enough question, she supposed, as it would only verify he could be literally anywhere.  "Yes."

"Then Miss Goldstein, I would ask a favor of you.  The next time you send a letter to my brother, would you be willing to enclose a letter from myself?  I swear it would be nothing more than parchment and ink, no spells."

It still sounded wrong, underhanded, but she couldn't put her finger on why.  If it was truly just a letter, there wouldn't be any harm in enclosing it.  She could say in her letter that the enclosure was from this Mr. Scamander, and then her Mr. Scamander could either read it or not.  It wouldn't put anyone in danger.

"I won't lie about who it's from," she said at last.  "And I'll be testing it for spells before I enclose it."

Theseus Scamander smiled a tiny but gracious off-kilter smile, the first visible clue that the Scamanders were even remotely related.  "I expected nothing less.  I will have it ready for you by five o'clock."

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I'm sorry I didn't write back sooner; it's been chaos lately over here._

_I suppose you aren't within range of a newspaper, so you probably have not heard that Grindelwald escaped.  I confess I'm glad it wasn't on my watch, but that's small comfort when that means he's out there doing Merlin knows what.  We've had Aurors from all over the world coming in and out of the office, gathering intelligence and giving us theirs while we're trying to figure out where he's gone._

_And that's part of why I didn't write back sooner.  I met your brother on Friday.  You and I are mentioned in the documentation packets as collaborators in Grindelwald's original capture, which is how I suppose he thought to talk to me.  He asked if I'd heard from you since you left New York (I told him the truth), and he asked if I'd enclose a letter from him when I wrote next.  I haven't opened it, but I did run it through our gamut of spell detectors, so I can practically guarantee it's physically safe to open.  Or not open, if that's what you'd prefer._

_(I have to say, I would never have guessed you were brothers if I didn't know any better.  Do each of you take after a different parent?  He's very stern.)_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and safety.  Are you still in Brazil, or have you found something new to study somewhere different?  I know you don't approve of worrying, but since we know neither where Grindelwald is nor whether he's prone to holding grudges, camping out in the middle of nowhere studying snakes may be safer for you than England._

_Sincerely,_

_Porpentina Goldstein_

* * *

 

A man climbed down a ladder into a shed lined on every wall with drawers and shelves.  As an addition to his normally-eccentric appearance, a gold and black owl perched nonchalantly on his head until the man reached the bottom.

"All right, Nigel.  Hand it over."

The owl fluttered over to a perch and extended a leg so the man could remove the neatly-folded parchment.  When he started to open the letter, another piece of parchment slid out, landing with a tiny smack on the worktable.  The man stared at it for a moment, unbelieving, before returning to the letter at hand.

When he finished reading it, his face was pale and his brows were furrowed.  He glanced to the sealed letter, back to the one he still held, then back to the sealed one.  He carefully tucked the open letter in his pocket and picked up the other letter, staring at the address: _Newton Scamander, Hopefully Somewhere on Earth_.

He gazed unmoving at the letter for a very long time, long enough that the owl lost patience and started digging in one of the drawers for treats.  Then with a melancholy grimace, he opened a dusty drawer and slid in the letter before attending to his overstuffed bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've got a tumblr! http://quillandsaber.tumblr.com/
> 
> MAJOR warning, though; I'm mainly posting my headcanons there at this time. And I'm the kind of person who commits to her headcanons when writing fanfiction. So there's very real potential for spoilers to pop up there. Like, I think currently there's one major spoiler up there and two minor ones.  
> There's also a little Reylo content farther back, but if that isn't your cup of tea, it is all tagged as such so you can filter it out.


	4. Colombia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the "1920s gender norms" and "1920s social norms" tags. There will be terminology and concepts in this chapter that are decidedly not 2016-nearly-2017-progressive-and-modern, but they are 1927-progressive-and-modern. It's going to pop up more often as the story progresses.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the number of hours I spent in research looking into early 20th century cultural Judaism while trying to overcome term-paper-and-grant-proposal-induced writer's block, as well as my beta and idea-bouncer Melissa for her endless patience.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon, but to Tina, who'd been up and running after leads since three in the morning and hadn't had time for lunch, it felt like midnight.  As she trudged up the stairs to her apartment, the only thing that kept her moving upwards was the promise of a hot cup of cocoa and a sandwich and a _bed_ at the other end of it.  What she wouldn't have given for some solution to the Grindelwald mystery, just so she could get some decent sleep!

When she got to her front door, she fumbled in her pocket for her key, swearing under her breath in half-remembered Yiddish when her exhausted fingers failed to find anything other than the handle of her wand for the hundredth time.  When she finally found her key (hiding in a soon-to-be hole in the corner; she'd have to ask Queenie to fix it) and wrestled it in the lock, a loud, short hoot came from just inside the door.

"Tina, is that you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Esposito.  It's been a long day," she called to her landlady, hurrying to get the door open.  She shouldn't get her hopes up, it's probably just an owl from the bank, it's probably not the giant gold and black bird that she'd been expecting for the last three weeks, just because Mr. Scamander was taking forever didn't mean she'd be hearing from him that day...

Finally her key decided to oblige her, and the bolt thunked back into place within the lock.  She opened the door with rather more force than she had originally intended and was gratified with the sight of Nigel, perched on a section of mantlepiece, looking about as fed up as she felt but at least not injured or ill.  That was a relief; part of her had worried whether the delay in a return letter was due to Nigel getting hurt.

"All right, Nigel," she pulled a can of sardines from the pantry along with a loaf of rye.  "I'll get to you in a minute."  Tina quickly sawed off two thick slices and laid her sardines across the bread—Queenie would have been scandalized at her laziness had she been around to see—and set the rest of the can by Nigel's perch as a snack.  While the owl was distracted with his tasty treat, she made quick work of the parchment tied to his leg.

Tina had to force herself to ignore the letter long enough to finish making her sandwich by sprinkling some lemon juice and chopped olives on top. She wouldn't lose her head and forget her long-overdue supper just because this letter took three more weeks to get to her than usual and possibly contained some incredibly important and personal information and because she'd been worried sick about the sender for the last month and a half, oh no.  Armed with her sardolive sandwich and a glass of milk, she finally settled down at the kitchen table to read.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_Please don't apologise for being busy.  You work to keep the world in something resembling one piece; that's more than worth the price of waiting a few extra days for a letter.  I've just set up camp in Colombia well away from anything resembling civilisation and am studying nothing potentially of interest to a dark wizard, so I'm as safe as anyone who carries a Nundu in his suitcase can be._

_If any apologies are owed, they are from me to you for not warning you about my brother earlier; I should have anticipated your work might lead to some connexion with my family.  In case Theseus asks you to play go-between again, I think it only right to tell you why you are being asked to do it in the first place._

_I have made myself very difficult to find since the War.  Most owls are Repelled from me for the sake of their welfare as I travel so often without an itinerary. Nigel is one of three owls which can find me, and all of them were selected specifically for their ability to cross expanses of ocean without landing.  The others are Maude, who communicates with my publisher, and Harold (you might meet him someday, if Nigel needs an extended holiday; I warn you in advance he has a tendency to gift small rodents to the humans he stays with), who carries other personal correspondence, none of which is with my family.  You see, Miss Goldstein, my father was less than pleased with my expulsion from Hogwarts, and as a result I was sent away until the War started and I enlisted.  The last time I saw any members of my family was in January of 1919 when I received my discharge papers, and that meeting was both entirely accidental and unpleasant for all concerned.  In order to preserve the fragile peace which allows us to make our respective ways in the world, I have chosen to remain cut off from them; it is, I believe, better this way._ ~~_It wasn't fair for you to get dragged in_~~

_On a lighter topic in a literal sense, it appears the range of the Tupi fire-serpent (the natives call it "boitata", or at least I think that's how it should be spelt) is far broader than previous Magizoologists have believed, and those found in Colombia may be an entirely different subspecies due to the presence of spines which might be poisonous.  I am attempting to capture one to find out, but it is rather difficult to catch an animal with ten to thirty eyes.  My last fruitless attempt unfortunately upset the piranha population of this stretch of river, so I will need to either move a few miles upstream or wait for them to become complacent again; for non-magical creatures, they are rather spirited._

_Sincerely,_

_Newton Scamander_

_P.S. Pickett seems to want me to send his regards; the smudges over the last paragraph are his doing._

Tina stared at the letter.

If she knew anything about the man, it was that he was an understater.  His definition of 'just a smidge' was big enough to let an Erumpent through.  She hated to think what 'less than pleased' and 'unpleasant' translated to if it was enough for him to completely refuse to communicate with his father or brother.  Mr. Scamander did not overreact.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Queenie's quick steps coming up the hallway stairs and the apartment door opening.

"Teenie, do you think—oh, hello there, Nigel!"  She gently scratched behind the owl's ears.  "Did Mr. Scamander say anything about the letter from his brother?"

"I don't think he even opened it," Tina said, still staring at the letter.  "From what he said, it sounds like he was kicked out by his father when he was a teenager and had a falling-out last decade that was so bad he won't even consider communicating with them, but I can't imagine him arguing with anyone, at least not strongly enough to tear a family apart."

"Maybe he didn't."

"...did you try reading the brother's mind the day he was here?"

"No, I never saw him," Queenie sniffed as she took off her hat and coat.  "It's just that, if you put _your_ Mr. Scamander up against someone who has the stuff to be a war hero, I'd guess that he'd take as much as he could take before walking away.  Maybe the brother is trying to fix things up."

Tina blushed at the 'your' jibe and took a rather too large bite of her sandwich to stall responding.  For the love of all that was chocolate, the only reason she thought of her Mr. Scamander as _hers_ was that it was an easy way in her head to differentiate him from _the other_ Mr. Scamander.   _The one I want to see again_ and _the one I hope never enters the country again_ were far too long for ordinary use.  "Well," she said after swallowing, "it seems to be a moot point in any case if he won't read the letter."

"If you say so.  Any luck today at the office?" Queenie moved back to the bedroom.

"None," Tina sighed and grimaced at the all-too-clear memories of the day of interviewing useless witnesses.  "I honestly don't think Grindelwald's even in this hemisphere, but we're too scared of what would happen if we were wrong to announce it.  And even if he isn't here, he must have at least a few American supporters.  He couldn't have escaped Roanoke without help.  Our best theory is that the person—or people—who helped him either Imperiused the guard who died or impersonated him with Polyjuice Potion, but we don't have the slightest shred of proof...not like there would be any if the jailbreakers were smart about it."  She took another violent bite of her sandwich.  How any person could be sufficiently intelligent to graduate from Ilvermorny and agree with Grindelwald was beyond her understanding.

"It's because they don't understand that just because they can touch a wand without it exploding in their face makes anyone who can't less a person," Queenie called from the next room.  "You'd be shocked how many people believe that, Teenie, you really would.  It's like No-Majs and colored people."

"That doesn't make it less ridiculous!"

"A lot of ridiculous things go on in people's heads."  Queenie walked back over to the coat rack, having changed out of her work dress into the leaf-green sheer concoction she'd finished the day before that quite frankly looked absurd for early March.  "Particularly when it comes to things that let them feel like they have the right to be horrible."

Something about her sister's behavior was decidedly off, and Tina's investigative instincts kicked in.  The new dress, the hurry she was in, the total lack of explanation of what was going on when normally Queenie couldn't keep a secret to save her life...the suspiciously large quantities of strangly-shaped pastries that had been gracing their pantry for the last few weeks...  "Are you going out tonight?"

"Yes," Queenie said briskly.

"Queenie...are you going out with Jacob?"

The blonde witch froze in the middle of packing her handbag, and Tina didn't need her sister's gift to read the distraught expression on her face.

"Oh, Queenie…"

"I know what I'm doing," Queenie said, voice trembling.  "I know it's illegal and I could end up in Roanoke for it, but I can't not do it.  I'm twenty-three, and he's the only man I've ever met who's got goodness the whole way through between the ears. I meant it when I said I ain't gonna find another.  And besides, if Law Enforcement decides they're going to go after a witch on a date with a No-Maj, which is legal almost anywhere else in the world, instead of trying to find Grindelwald—"

Lordy, her baby sister was about to cry.  "Queenie, it's okay," she rushed over to gather her sister in a hug.  "I'm not going to report you."

"You're just gonna worry every minute," Queenie sniffled.

"I'm your big sister.  It's my job to worry about you every minute no matter who you're with.  And," she struggled to find some graciousness among all the concern, "all things considered, he's very unlikely to do anything deliberately to hurt you, so at least I'm not worried too much on that count."

"He just wants me to be happy," Queenie gave a watery smile.  "We're going to the pictures tonight because I said I'd never seen one.  And he's been asking if we'd go to the seder at his place next month; his landlady had a cat when she heard that we didn't have family to do our own."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Tina said, doing her utmost to keep focused on the gracious happy thoughts.  "In any case, I don't want to make you late for your date.  Just...be careful, all right?"

The younger sister smiled fully this time and moved to the door.  "You know I always am."

After the door closed behind Queenie and the sound of high heels clipped along on the street outside, Tina allowed exactly thirty seconds to feel everything she'd kept clamped down with her sister in the apartment.  Terror for what would happen if her sister got caught.  Pain for what would most likely happen if she didn't.  Queenie was an absolute doll, and Jacob Kowalski, while a simple man, wasn't an idiot.  Things probably wouldn't change this year, but next year?  Or the year after that?  There'd be one less Goldstein and one more Kowalski, and Tina would be on her own unless she got a few kneazles—

Her thirty seconds of self-pity was up, and now it was time to be practical again.  She returned to her sandwich and milk, chewing and swallowing methodically through it as she thought the situation over rationally.  At this point, Queenie and Jacob were just dating, which really didn't mean much these days.  Ten to one they'd part ways within the next year anyway due to one of about a hundred practical problems.  And even if they didn't, Jacob's bakery was only across Manhattan, not across the Atlantic.  Her job was fulfilling and paid well enough that she could afford to live alone fairly comfortably.  She also had other friends...well, another friend, but he seemed like the kind of friend not easily lost, which was more valuable than a dozen acquaintances.

She glanced at Mr. Scamander's letter where it lay on the table.  Perhaps calling him a not-easily-lost friend was an understatement if he'd chosen her as one of two non-business people he could correspond with routinely and, as Queenie pointed out routinely, he had asked very politely to cross a literal ocean to see her again on one of the thinnest pretexts she'd ever heard.  Lordy, if that didn't make her feel special, even if it was a selfish thought.

Tired as she was, there was no way Tina was going to get a wink of sleep until Queenie arrived back home safe and sound without a wanted poster with her face on it, and that made it as good a time as any to write a letter.  It couldn't be long—there wasn't much that had changed in her altogether-too-routine life since the last one, and she wasn't skilled enough at fluffing out letters with nothing to try to stretch it—but at least it could be prompt.  She'd say nothing about his past, naturally; she owed him something nice, like hearing about Queenie and Jacob.  He'd like to hear that, surely.  Sandwich finished, Tina turned around to the desk to retrieve quill and parchment.

 

* * *

  _Dear Mr. Scamander,_

 _Whether my work has contributed to it or no, we've seen neither hide nor hair of Grindelwald since his escape.  While no news isn't really good news in this case, time he spends hiding is at least time he isn't spending trying to hurt innocents or those of us trying to catch him and bring him to justice.  At the moment we're trying to find his supporters in this country_ _,_ _but we haven't much to go on other than the fact we're certain some witches and wizards here agree with Grindelwald's base idea of wizard superiority, but (thankfully) we're fairly certain most of them would never think of harming anyone deliberately because of that._

_In happier news, Queenie (who sends her regards, by the way) has started seeing a member of our mutual acquaintance.  You can probably guess who it is, and for the sake of protecting her privacy in case this letter falls off Nigel's leg in transit, I'll leave it at that.  Kowalski's Bakery is booming as well; you'd be amazed at what he can manage to make without magic.  I'll send a sample of the gingerbread in my next letter if I can figure out how to safely package it for a week-long flight, since I don't think the more interesting things would survive the journey unsquashed.  Or, if you don't like gingerbread, I promise to take you there when you're next in America._

_I'm almost afraid to ask, but how do you test if a creature's spines are poisonous?_

_Sincerely,_

_Tina Goldstein_

_P.S. I know it's very unlikely at this point, but please be sure to keep an eye out for threats of the "being" variety, just in case the reason we aren't seeing Grindelwald is because he's developed a sudden interest in tropical wildlife._

 

* * *

 On the shores of an Amazonian tributary, there sat a rather battered-looking man next to an equally-battered suitcase.  The man stared quizzically at the water as if trying to solve a puzzle until a rather large owl appeared in the sky overhead, hooting noisily.  He immediately looked up, following the bird's flight path until it landed on the suitcase.

"She must have sent you back immediately, didn't she?  Damn, why didn't I stop myself from sending it—"

The owl gave a loud hoot of an interruption and extended his leg.  With great trepidation, the man untied the parchment and slowly opened it up.  As he read, the look of anxiety was replaced by a look of disbelieving relief.  When he finally reached the end, he tapped his head, and the all-too-patient owl hopped atop the reddish hair.

"All right, Nigel," the man said as he clicked the latches open on the suitcase.  "Think you can help me continue not messing things up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boitatá (Portugu-ation of the Tupi phrase for "fiery serpent") is the indigenous-Brazilian explanation of the will-o'-the-wisp phenomenon, believed to be a giant snake with at least two (but sometimes substantially more) fiery eyes. There's a ton of spelling/pronunciation variations, none of which is the one Newt used, because bless his little Anglocentric soul.


	5. Ciudad de Panamá

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE THE RATING CHANGE. The relevant tag to the bump-up to T is "historical reality without sugarcoating," specifically, what life was like for a typical family in the overcrowded tenements of 1920s NYC (child labor, teen marriage, unchecked disease, severe poverty, etc). There's also some ethical dilemmas that pop up that get a little complicated. I do promise that there's a hopeful, if not happy, resolution to the chapter.
> 
> Also, holy crap is this long, almost 5k words. I've been trying to aim for the 2k-3k range, but this one just ran away from me. Hopefully it'll be worth it. Special thanks to my beta Melissa for suffering through my various bouts of uncertainty about the length and complexity.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_As always, it is wonderful to hear that you and yours are safe.  We are still in Colombia, and the piranhas have yet to stop causing me difficulties.  Would you believe the wizarding travel books for South America have no recommended spells for dealing with their tendency for frenzy?  I believe that the Tupi fire-serpent and the piranha might share a symbiotic relationship_ _—or, perhaps, a general dislike for gingerish wizards._

 _Is it too soon for me to ask you to convey my congratulations (of the appropriate nature, naturally) to your sister and her mystery companion?  They seemed to get along so well before, so I'm glad they've decided to overcome their differences for the sake of their happiness.  More importantly, though: how are_ _you_ _handling this development?  I remember you were not fond of him before, but then again, you were even less fond of me then (which I know I thoroughly deserved).  Still, you know better than I what affects their differences will have on them, which I suppose may mean more than matters of approval._

_I will soon be making a trip to Panama for supplies (including poison-detection potion, as I have run out) and, luck willing, some guidance with the piranha difficulties.  So if there is a delay in my next reply to you, please don't worry.  Somehow, Grindelwald doesn't seem like the kind of wizard who would learn Spanish to blend in in Panama._

_Sincerely,_

_Newt Scamander_

_P.S. Gingerbread would be most appreciated.  Nigel shouldn't have any trouble carrying a small piece since he's so large, if you are so inclined._

_P.P.S. The oddly-shaped splotch above is a self-portrait of Pickett.  He's been very curious about ink lately and has been experimenting with stamping himself in various positions onto any surface that will hold still long enough for him to do so, which happened to include this letter.  I hope he will behave himself better in the future._

* * *

 

Another day, another "secondary assignment" briefing with a third of the office gathered around a large table headed by Mr. Graves.  It was the new office joke (and a sad one at that) that their task of tracking down American criminals was technically secondary to tracking down a foreign wizard who was almost certainly not even on the continent to be tracked, but, as Mr. Graves had said earlier in a moment of uncharacteristic frankness, publicity was half the battle of managing panic.

"There've been reports of No-Majs showing signs of Gigglewater intoxication at speakeasies throughout the city with most reports centered in Harlem and Brooklyn."  He tapped the map spread out on the table, which glowed red over the region.  "Everything's pointing to mafia involvement, so everyone is to lie low until you get the order to strike.  Russo, Moretti, you'll be going undercover with the No-Majs.  As of tomorrow, the rest of you will be split into pairs—" Mr. Graves paused as a folded paper mouse scurried its way across the map.  Every eye followed the mouse until it skittered to a halt in front of Tina, unfolding itself into an interdepartmental memo.  She immediately recognized the logo on the letterhead above a very short message.

"It's from OCS," Tina said, looking up at her boss.  Mr. Graves seemed to think for a second, then nodded towards the door.  The dark-haired witch promptly grabbed the memo and made for the elevator.

She didn't stop to read the memo until the elevator goblin had already set the contraption to arrive at the Office of Children's Services.  The text was simple and exactly what she'd been told to expect: _Extraction support needed.  Promptly report to Abigail Smithers, office 4245B._  No details yet; the procedures manual had said she wouldn't be briefed until she arrived, in case the situation changed between the memo being sent and her arriving to meet her OCS contact.  The elevator arrived on the forty-second floor, and Tina followed the arrows directing her through the various departments until she found herself knocking on at the prescribed door.

The oak door creaked open to reveal a cosy-looking office that looked like it hadn't been updated since MACUSA moved to the building, plush armchair in the corner and all.  A witch—middling height, somewhat-plump build, mid-forties or thereabouts, light brown hair in a low chignon—sat at the desk, blinking at Tina expectantly.

"Porpentina Goldstein?"

"Tina," the taller witch corrected.  "You're," she glanced at the other witch's left hand for guidance on the title, "Miss Abigail Smithers?"

"The very same."  Abigail picked her wand up off the desk and tapped it on a stack of papers, which began to float their way into a document case. "I've been told you haven't seen an extraction before."

Tina winced at the word 'extraction'; it reminded her too much of pulling teeth.  "That's right.  Anything I should know before we head out?"

Abigail shrugged.  "There's not much complexity to this one.  It's a six-year-old girl, youngest of eleven with eight living.  The name is Margaret Gardener, better known as Peg.  The father currently works as a porter, but the oldest two girls work in a laundry to make ends meet."

"Do you expect the parents to fight?"

"Not at all.  This is mostly overcaution.  See," the witch grimaced, "child number ten in the family was the youngest of the Barebone children, and the parents clearly thought enough of Mary Lou Barebone and her ideas that they gave their daughter to her.  It'll be safest to take Peg to Wilkinson School to be with her sister, and we expect the parents to be amenable because they haven't protested Modesty's placement, but we can't afford to take chances like we used to."

Tina vaguely remembered hearing during the wrapup of the Barebone Incident that the younger Barebone girl had been Grindelwald's ultimate aim.  At the time, she'd been too torn up about Credence to think about what happened to Modesty beyond vaguely absorbing the fact that Grindelwald had been right about her abilities and that she'd been shunted off to the same wizarding boarding school Tina and Queenie had attended after their parents died until they were old enough for Ilvermorny.  "Wait...two witches in a No-Maj family?"

"We had our family records person take a look.  The father has no father listed on his birth certificate, so he could have some wizard ancestry that isn't registered, but that's not relevant to the situation at hand."  Abigail stood and snapped her case shut before walking over to the hatstand in the corner, grabbing a cloche and coat.  "You'll want to change or transfigure your investigative attire into something more...traditional.  Best not to chance looking too modern when trying to convince parents to let us take their children."

"Oh."  Tina had almost forgotten she'd dressed in trousers for fieldwork.  With a wave of her wand and a half-second of visualization, she was much more conventionally attired in a smart pleated skirt that demurely covered her knees.  She knew her hat didn't need any changing, and her cardigan and blouse would probably be fine without alteration...which was just as well, because dress was Queenie's domain, not hers.  "That look all right, or should I make a suit coat?"

"It will do.  You're posing as a community volunteer this time since it's your first; you don't have to look like a professional."  Abigail grabbed Tina's hand, and with a crack the office surrounding her was replaced by a very dirty alley that she recognized as one of the standard MACUSA landing zones.

"The place is four blocks away," Abigail said as she adjusted her cloche.  "This is one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city, so expect to see the whole family crammed into one or two rooms.  I hate to say it, but it's usually easy to convince families in such a state to part with one child too young for legal work.  One less mouth to feed means more for everyone else."

They walked in silence, dodging around crowds, for a while until a question bubbled out of Tina's mind.  "Is it the same still, how they deal with the families?"  She remembered very distinctly that all the other children who stayed at school between terms were either orphans like her or No-Maj-born.  It hadn't been hard for her to not leave school (her only family was also at the school; she had no one else to miss) but she remembered the other children pining for the parents and siblings they legally couldn't see.  "Do the children not get to visit their parents at all?"

"That was the only way we could keep the children safe until about five years ago," Abigail said quietly, pausing in front of a ramshackle narrow building.  "That's when a Congress research grant developed a potion that will make anyone who tries to talk or write about magic cough uncontrollably instead.  It works up to a year or until you take the antidote, so we give it to any child who wants to go home for vacations.  It lets us tell reluctant parents that their children will be home for Christmas, though we hope when they're older they'll stay at school instead.  It makes the transition to adulthood easier."

Tina's brows furrowed as they made their way up the tenement steps.  "Has anyone ever found a way around it?"  It seemed like there had to be a loophole somewhere.

The plump witch paused abruptly in front of the tenement entrance.  "If you tell anyone I said this I'll deny it even under Veritaserum, but if one of my charges manages to inform their families about the reality of magic without setting off the need for dozens of Obliviations, then it's none of my business.  I won't say Rappaport was an idiot, but it's plain to see she never talked to a No-Maj-born witch or wizard in her life before she wrote her law."  The older witch opened the door, and Tina was assaulted by the smell of too many people living too close together without enough bathrooms and the noise of the same.  The pair made their way up the narrow creaking staircase, carefully not touching the bannisters covered in drying laundry, until they came to a rather battered-looking door.  Abigail knocked firmly, and a few seconds later it was opened just far enough for a sickly boy about twelve years old to stick his head out.

"Excuse me, I'm here for Mr. or Mrs. Gardener," Abigail said brightly.  "Are either of your parents at home?"

"Ma's here," the child answered dully.  "What're you here for?"

"It's about your sister Margaret.  She's in no trouble, I promise."

The boy looked both of them up and down with a critical eye.  "Best come in, then."

As expected, the tiny room was intensely crowded.  The iron range in the corner had a pot bubbling away—some kind of greasy stew, from the smell—crowded next to a battered Victorian-era pantry and sink.  The table in the center was surrounded by chairs of all shapes and sizes that probably blocked the other door (leading to the bedroom, Tina guessed) most of the time, but everything seemed fairly clean, all things considered.

"Ma," the boy called to the back room.  "There's women here wanting to talk about Peg."

Out came a woman who had to be Mrs. Gardener.  She looked utterly ordinary and haggard, thin as a switch with wrinkles on her face that seemed like they'd come before their time...but of course they had.  Raising ten children and burying three of them would age anybody.  Behind her was a small girl with the same ordinary features and hungry sink to her eyes; that was probably Peg.

"What's to do with Peg?" the woman asked, confusion hitting her features.  "She weren't old enough for school this year; it ain't truancy."

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Gardener, although we are here to talk about schooling for Peg.  I'm Abigail Smithers from Wilkinson School.  I believe someone came to talk to you about Modesty's placement there after the death of her adoptive mother Mary Lou Barebone?"

"They did.  What of it?"

"Your daughter Margaret has been selected to receive a scholarship to Wilkinson School as well," Abigail said, extending a packet of papers from her briefcase towards the woman.  "As with Modesty, her bed, board, and uniform will be provided by our benefactors as well as her tuition.  We would hope she could leave for school rather soon so she would have a chance to catch up with the rest of the children her age by June, ideally today."

The mother's gaze turned wary, and her hand gripped hard on her daughter's shoulder.  "Stop a minute.  How did Peg get selected anyways?"

Abigail placed the paperwork on the table, subtly stepping back.  Tina recognized it as a deescalation tactic from her Auror training.  "I'm not privy to all the information about the selection process, but it's very common for us to take siblings of children who have already received scholarships.  The talents our benefactors wish to help develop tend to run in families."

"Talents?  What _talents?_ "

"If I may, Mrs. Gardener," Tina interrupted before things could get ugly, "My sister and I went to Wilkinson School after our parents died.  It wasn't an easy transition, but I was never in danger or taken advantage of, and I'm glad of the education I received there and the life it prepared me for."

Mrs. Gardener's face suddenly got a sharp, calculating look.  "Who're you?"

"Tina Stone," Tina replied, giving her standard pseudonym; you never knew when you'd step on someone's underlying hatred for Jews, even in a place like New York.  "I started school there in 1909 when I was eight and went on to the secondary school it's affiliated with."

"And what kind of life did it prepare you for?"

"I work with the police department in the investigations office.  This visit isn't connected with that, though," Tina reassured hurriedly as her brain tried to scramble for an excuse.  "Myself and other graduates go along sometimes to speak with families, in case they have questions."

"Peg could get a job in an office?" the mother demanded, stepping forward.  "Not factory work, or scrubbing floors?  And Modesty too?"

"None of the girls I knew at school work in factories or as servants," Tina replied honestly.  "Those of us who aren't married mostly work in offices, a few in shops."

"Peg, go pack your things."  Mrs. Gardener said abruptly.

"But Ma—"

"You listen to me, Margaret Alice Gardener, and you listen good." She turned to her daughter and took her head into her hands.  "When I was your age, I was working picking lint in a thread factory.  You've got a chance to make something of yourself so you don't have to marry a man who drinks away the rent money when you're fifteen years old.  Now," the mother gulped, "you promise me that you'll work as hard as you ever can and not throw this away, you hear?  And you tell Modesty to do the same.  Now go get your things," she pushed the girl to the back room, and once the door was shut, she swiftly made her way around the table towards the two other women.

"Will the school send the girls home at Christmas?"

"The school has breaks at Christmas and Easter when children can go home, but some students always stay at the school for one reason or another."  Abigail looked over to Tina, who nodded in agreement.

"Do you think you could have 'em told at Easter that one of the others is sick so they can't come?" Mrs. Gardener murmured.  "I love my girls, you see, but we don't have much, and their da had wanted them to be boys.  It's better for 'em to be at the school."

"I can do that, and I'll come by again closer to Christmas," Abigail promised.  "If you're still of the same mind, I'll make sure they know."

"Thank you,"  Mrs. Gardener gave a grimace that looked like she may have been trying to smile.  "I'd ask about letters, but Peg doesn't know her letters yet."

"Her teacher will write to you about her progress regularly, and I have it on good authority that many of their early writing lessons are sending letters to their families."  Abigail looked to Tina for confirmation, who nodded.  That part was accurate, or at least it had been sixteen years ago.  She and Queenie had written their assigned letters to each other as a substitute; it was a small wonder she was so terrible at letter-writing when her best practice was with someone who already knew every thought in her head.

Peg finally came back, this time with a half-stuffed ratty pillowcase and a small ragdoll that had clearly seen better days.  "May I bring Molly, Ma?" the girl asked, lip quivering.

Mrs. Gardener's resolve seemed to break at that moment, and she swooped down to pull her child into a tight hug. "Of course you can bring your doll.  Now go with the ladies and mind your manners.  And pay attention to your lessons so you can write to us."

The little girl nodded, her face twisted up as if she was trying not to cry, but she let her mother push her to the door and took Abigail's proffered hand before they left the tenement room.  Tina tried very, very hard to not react to the sound of sobs that started as soon as the door closed and they started to go downstairs.  If she could hear it, Peg could hear it.  Abigail immediately started talking about Wilkinson School in the most generic terms in the most obvious distraction attempt Tina had seen in a while, but it seemed to help the girl as they made their way out of the tenement and into the street, now a little less cluttered due to the later hour.

A few blocks later, Abigail stopped short.  "Step over a bit, I've got a pebble in my shoe," The older woman limped exaggeratedly into an alley ( _the_ alley, Tina recognized, that they had used to get here in the first place) with Peg and Tina following.  The older woman leaned on the building wall and shook out her shoe (there really was a pebble; Tina was starting to admire her commitment to verisimilitude) before turning to Peg.

Abigail crouched down to the girl's eye level.  "Now Peg.  I am going to do something that might frighten you and might feel a little uncomfortable, but I promise you now that you will be completely safe and that no one is going to hurt you.  Do you understand?"

Peg started to look very confused, but she nodded.  Abigail smiled encouragingly, took the girl's hand, and with a tiny _pop_ they vanished.

And that was that.  Job done, mission accomplished.

The procedure manual said she was to report back to the office, but her workday ended ten minutes prior, and she felt...displaced.  Conflicted.  Confused by everything that had happened, and confused that she was confused.  Peg was objectively going to a better place where she'd be warm, well-fed, clean, educated, kept healthy, kept safe...but she wouldn't have her mother.  A mother who had evidently tried very hard to keep her last daughter even if she did have to give up the one before.

She started meandering along the sidewalk, trying to clear her brain before she attempted to Apparate home, but after half an hour it was clear it wasn't working.  Her head ached imprecisely, and her stomach hurt along with it (though that was probably due to her skipped lunch rather than her conflicted feelings about the day; she really needed to stop doing that).  Suddenly, her nose honed in on the smell of bread floating over the smells of oil and horse dung, and her head raised enough for her eyes to fix on the letters painted on a big glass window: Kowalski Quality Baked Goods.  She blinked for a moment before it processed.  Every time she'd been by here to snoop, there had been a bustling line out the door, but she'd only gone by in the morning; it was nearly six now, time for a baker to close up shop, and the shop was nearly empty.  Throwing caution and sense to the wind, she pushed open the shop door.

When she entered, two men looked up at her as if startled, one she recognized and one she didn't.  "Um...hi, Mr. Kowalski.  It's been a while," she mumbled, suddenly self-conscious.  This was a terrible, horrible idea, and she only had her treacherous stomach to blame for it.

Jacob looked at Tina with a tilted head for a moment, then seemed to place her.  "Tina?  You okay?"

"I'm fine.  I mean, I'm _not_ fine, temporarily, but I'm fine in general.  Queenie's fine, if you're worried."  Tina looked down at the counter and tried to get her heart and lungs under control.

Jacob nodded slowly, the perplexed look not leaving his face.  "Henry, I'll do the cleanup.  Turn the sign to 'closed' before you head out the door, will ya?"  The young man, evidently eager to skip closing the shop, made a quick dash to the bakery entrance and was gone in seconds.

Once Henry was gone, Jacob walked over to his display case, picked up one of the pastries, and held it out to Tina.  "Take it, on the house.  You look like you need a pick-me-up."

Lacking the will to argue, Tina took the pastry and dutifully bit into it.  She'd had the Occamy pastries before from what Queenie brought home, but today it seemed extra flakey and the filling extra creamy.  Maybe it was the fact it was fresher than she'd had before, or the fact she'd skipped lunch again, or maybe whatever it was about Jacob that made him resistant to Obliviation also gave him the gift of making magic pastries, but the fog in her brain began to clear.

"Earlier today I helped take a girl away from her loving mother who she may never see again because she has magic," Tina said around her mouthful of doughy Occamy.  "There's so many reasons why it needed to be done and why it's for the best—she's one of ten mouths to feed, and they're very poor—but it still feels so wrong."

Jacob grimaced sympathetically.  "Can the parents write to her or something?"

Tina nodded as she continued to eat her pastry.  "They can send letters as much as they want, and they can visit at Easter and Christmas, but the mother asked us to make up an excuse to tell her she can't come at Easter because they won't be able to afford to feed her."

"Well, then," he shrugged, "sounds like you've taken a bad thing and done the best that you can with it.  It's not like she's cut off from her family forever, even if that law you guys got says she's gotta.  I mean, there's enough booze in New York to drown a whale, if ya know what I'm sayin'."

"I suppose you're right.  It just makes me wish there were a better way, except there _isn't_."  Tina looked up from her last bite.  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Kowalski, for just showing up like this for the first time to talk about a horrible day at work.  I just..." she shrugged helplessly.

Jacob shook his head with a smile.  "Call me Jacob.  And it's all right.  Queenie's told me enough about what you've been up to.  Consider me flattered you'd think to come here at all on a bad day."

"Thanks.  That means a lot."  As she finished her last bite of pastry, her memory suddenly jogged.  "Oh!  I know you're closed, but could I possibly get a few pieces of gingerbread?  I promised Mr. Scamander that I'd send him some with my next letter."

"You're writing to Newt?" Jacob's smile gained a twinkle of delight.  "What's he up to now?"

"Researching snakes in the Amazon, which apparently consists of trying to determine which ones are poisonous while avoiding getting eaten by piranhas."  Tina couldn't help but smile slightly, though she wasn't entirely sure why.  "In his last letter he said he was going to take a quick trip to Panama at some point, so I'm not sure where he is at the moment.  I just hope I can send it to him before it spoils."

"I don't know magic, but I know baked goods," Jacob said, shaking his head as he puttered around behind the displays.  "Fold it up in butcher paper and seal it with wax, and it'll last months."  He passes a small, neat package over the cabinet,

"How much?"

"It's a gift.  Can't charge for something going to Newt, not after he helped me get this place."  Jacob gestured to their surroundings with quiet pride.

"Well, thank you, Jacob.  Truly."  Tina smiled and tucked the packet into her pocket as she drew her wand free.   _Home.  Second floor.  679 West 24th Street._  With a tiny pop, she vanished.

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I hope this letter finds you hale and whole.  I am glad that your methods for testing for poison do not include using yourself as a test subject, at least deliberately (though I assume you try to avoid accidental testing as well), and I wish you the best of luck on your piranha problem.  Have you tried setting off a frenzy deliberately in a different part of the river to distract them?  There've been times my work squad has set up diversions to get a group to clear out of their hideout so we can search it, so it might be worth considering._

_As promised, I've sent gingerbread along.  I consulted with Mr. Kowalski before packing it up, and he assures me that the gingerbread should arrive intact and unspoiled no matter where on the planet it's being sent.  I did the packing myself, though, so if it doesn't arrive properly, it's an issue of application rather than base technique.  I can send more later if you like it.  As for Queenie's_ ~~_new_ ~~ _beau...the best I can say is that I don't think there's anything I can tell her that would make her change her mind, whether changing her mind is a good idea or not, and I'm starting to believe this may be one of her best decisions yet.  For all his flaws, he is a good man who only wants to make the world better, as I'm sure you know; to borrow a phrase from Queenie, "has goodness all the way between his ears."  Feel free to be smug about this; I know I deserve it._

_I suppose I've chattered enough that I ought to stop stalling before this letter becomes a novel: I went on my first child extraction mission earlier today.  It was a six-year-old girl who had seven older siblings still alive in a desperately poor family, one of them being the youngest Barebone girl.  In case you aren't aware or if the British don't have a similar system, children too young for Ilvermorny who have to be taken from their homes for whatever reason, usually having No-Maj parents, are placed in small year-round boarding schools.  The one for New York state is just outside of Albany, called Wilkinson School.  I suppose it'll be easier on the little girl since Modesty's there (it was certainly easier for me that Queenie and I could stay together before I went on to Ilvermorny) and that she'll be properly fed and clothed now, but it was so strange telling the poor mother so many necessary lies so she'd be willing to give up her child without a fight.  I wish I knew more about what made her willing to give up Modesty at the time when she seems to only want the best she can manage for her girls, but I doubt I'll ever find out._

_As always, please stay safe.  I hope very much you get your answer about piranhas soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Tina Goldstein_

* * *

 

It was late in the evening when a man stepped onto the balcony of his hotel room to look down at the nearly empty streets of Panama's capital.  Except for the occasional bray of a cart mule or growl of a car engine starting, everything was quiet and calm.  The man seemed to enjoy the silence as much as the view, his gaze wandering around until it fixed on a moving object in the distance.  A few minutes later, the object became clearer as a bird, and by the time it landed on the railing, the large owl was unmistakeable.  The man blinked a moment at the package attached to the owl's left ankle in mirror to the letter on the right, but he set to work unfastening the bird's cargo before hustling it back into the room.

The man stayed on the balcony, first opening the wax-sealed packet and retrieving two flat cookies.  One he placed back in the wrapping and into his waistcoat pocket, and the other he held between his teeth as he opened the letter.  If he stayed there for well over an hour reading and rereading the letter as he nibbled on the cookie, there was nothing there to witness it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Ciudad de Panamá in the 1920s had some freakin' amazing architecture. Seriously, look it up.
> 
> If you tumble, I've got a tumblr: http://quillandsaber.tumblr.com I tend to post musings and whatnot, sometimes dialogue snippets for stuff I want to write. Be warned it's not specific to Fantastic Beasts, but I'm diligent about tagging fandoms and relevant pairings.


	6. The Route to Santa Marta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a description of a Friday night meal which, while containing some typical dishes served at a Shabbat meal, do not contain the ritual elements thereof. This is deliberate; the Goldstein sisters are not trying to observe Shabbat on 1-2 April, 1927. There is a very specific, carefully-considered and -researched reason behind this authorial decision. The reason itself isn't a spoiler (I've actually mentioned it already, though I'll be exploring the implications later on in the series), and I am more than willing to discuss it with anyone who wants to shoot me a tumblr message about it.
> 
> Also, WARNING: there is a lot of angsty thinking in this chapter. Happy ending, but angst along the way.

"Goldstein!"

Tina's head shot up from her desk, her hand flying for her wand at her hip, when she suddenly found herself frozen.

"Goldstein, I'm going to release you in five seconds, and you'd better be cooled down. You're in the damn office, not a raid."

Mortification hit her as she recognized Mr. Graves's voice from behind her. Mercy Lewis, was she in deep trouble. Falling asleep on the job only to wake up and nearly curse her department head…

She felt the Freezing Charm dissipate, and she slowly spun in her desk chair to face Mr. Graves, fearing the worst. It made her feel a tad bit better to see that he wasn't furiously angry, but _only_ a tad.

"Yes, Mr. Graves?"

"You're on leave for the next week."

A lump of ice seemed to form in her stomach. She was done for. Finished. "Mr. Graves?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"You're not getting fired or going under investigation, Goldstein. There've been two independent Grindelwald sightings in Poland in the last two weeks, so we're starting rolling leave for Investigations. You've worked the most over your time since the mess started, so you're going first. I've already called your sister to escort you home." Graves took a quick look over his shoulder as if to check for bystanders before turning back with a much softer look on his face. "You've got to start taking care of yourself, Tina. I've seen too many good people lost because they got too worn down to cast countercurses in time. We both know you're smarter than that, so _be_ smarter than that. Understand?"

Tina swallowed heavily. "Yes sir."

"Good. Let Queenie coddle you a bit this weekend or something, but for the love of witchcraft and wizardry, _rest_ . Do whatever it is young people are doing for fun these days so you can come in with a fresh mind Monday after next. And here's your sister." His spine straightened up at the telltale businesslike click of Queenie's heels signaling her approach.

"Mr. Graves?" Queenie smiled as she turned the corner.

"Good to see you, Miss Goldstein. Side-Along her home, will you? She's not safe to Apparate on her own."

Queenie shot Tina a pointed look, the same look Tina remembered getting from their mother when she got in trouble as a little girl. Salem's fires, Tina knew, _just knew_ , that Queenie was never going to let her hear the end of it now.

"Of course, Mr. Graves. Come on, Tina."

Tina carefully reached for her coat, overly mindful of the scrutiny she was under from both her boss and her sister. Her fingers fumbled as she fastened the buttons shut (though that had to be nerves, right? It couldn't be exhaustion), and she didn't fight when Queenie took hold of her sleeve and dragged her past Mr. Graves and out of the labyrinth.

"Do I even want to know why he said you aren't safe to Apparate on your own?" Queenie whispered.

Tina stuffed her hands in her coat pockets, trying to look inconspicuous. "I... _might_ have dozed off at my desk. Maybe. And I _might_ have almost hexed Mr. Graves when he startled me awake."

Queenie shook her head and pulled her sister into the elevator. "Main floor please, Red," she chirped in her normal volume before returning to grumbling under her breath.

"Betty _Parris_ , Teenie, what am I ever going to do with you. You probably haven't eaten lunch either."

"Maybe." Tina tactfully neglected to mention she'd also forgotten breakfast on the way out that morning unless you counted the handful of peppermints she'd stolen from the secretary's desk that morning. She'd eaten her dinner after midnight the night before, though, so that perhaps technically counted as a very early breakfast. But then she'd have to explain that she'd gotten home that late because she'd lost track of time sorting evidence and didn't sign out of the office until eleven o'clock the night before.

Mr. Graves might be right about her needing to take leave. Maybe.

"First thing we're going to do when we get home is get you a cup of hot cocoa and a nap, and then you're sitting down to a _real_ meal, Porpentina Esther Goldstein," Queenie muttered. "Hot dogs do not and have never counted as a real meal. It's no wonder you're worn so ragged."

Tina knew better than to argue when Queenie was pulling out middle names, so she stayed silent as she felt the pull of Queenie Apparating them both to their safe alley near the apartment, and she suffered herself to be led up the steps of the brownstone. Her heart dropped instantly as she saw the one person she least wanted to run into that day standing in the middle of the hallway, dusting away at the banisters for seemingly no other reason than to be in the way of her two tenants.

"Hello, Mrs. Esposito!" Queenie said brightly, dragging Tina in past their landlady.

"You're home early," Mrs. Esposito's brows furrowed, and her mouth twisted into the concerned grimace that made Tina just want to go hide.

"Tina's been working herself to the bone lately. The boss told me to make sure she came home to rest for the next week," Queenie explained with a smile as she none-to-gently shoved her sister up the stairs. "Can't have our best policegirl coming down with influenza."

Mrs. Esposito's grimace took on a less benevolent slant, and Queenie wisely did not elaborate as they made their way to the second-floor apartment. Both sisters had heard before Mrs. Esposito's opinions on women working with the police ("it's just not _safe_ "), and they knew from experience that they would never win that point, even though Tina earned nearly twice Queenie's secretarial salary and therefore contributed far more to the rent.

" _Bed_ , Teenie," Queenie said the minute the door was closed. "I'll take care of the cocoa and supper."

Tina stumbled her way towards her bed, at some point kicking off her shoes and dropping her hat somewhere that she hoped wasn't the floor. Why did she feel so tired all of a sudden? She would have thought she would have noticed if Mr. Graves had cast a time-release sleeping charm on her, but maybe…

Her thought process got no further as she fell face-forward onto her bed.

* * *

"Teenie, supper's ready."

Tina shoved herself upright, hand almost slipping off the edge of her bed as she took in her surroundings. "Huh?" She could see the streetlights from outside through the window; had she really been asleep that long?

"It's suppertime. You know, the time most people eat a decent meal, before midnight?" Queenie's teasing voice interrupted her confusion.

Tina blinked a few times before the message sunk in through the adrenaline rush. "Oh. I'll be there in a minute."

"All right. Food's on the table, so you'd better hurry unless you want it cold."

The older sister barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at the entirely-unnecessary warning; it wasn't like Tina hadn't surreptitiously shot warming spells at her meals before when she'd arrived late. Still, tonight was not a night to be testing Queenie's finite patience, so she dutifully walked into the main room, attempting to smooth her rumpled blouse and skirt before sitting down to her place at the table.

Queenie evidently had no faith in Tina's ability to feed herself properly, because she had already placed nearly half a roast chicken on Tina's plate with a thick slice of bread and a heaping pile of boiled potatoes and carrots. She didn't need to be a Legillimens like her sister to know that it was a pointed command to eat, so Tina obeyed. After the first few half-awake mouthfuls of bread, her hunger awoke in earnest, and she began to plow through to the chicken. Queenie might have a point about the whole proper meals and untrustworthy street food thing.

"You _know_ I have a point about untrustworthy hot dogs, Teenie. You've gotten sick more than once off of them."

Tina ignored her and kept eating until her stomach hurt. She owed it to her boss to do this properly, to eat and sleep enough now that she had the chance. And...then what? She had a lot of eating and sleeping to catch up on, but she had to do something else with her week or she'd go crazy. What would she do with the rest of her week?

"You mean in addition to the sleep and real food you need in order to feel like a real person again? There's a lot of things you need to catch upon," Queenie replied to the unspoken question. "You'll need another dress for spring this year—don't look at me like that, Teenie, you know that navy thing you've got is past the point of _Reparo_ —and you need to treat yourself to a new mystery novel for your own sanity. Oh!" The blonde suddenly grinned in delight. "You should go to the pictures, Teenie! I saw a poster for a show the last time I went out that I think you'd really like—"

"Mr. Graves is gonna ask what I did, and I can't tell him I went to the pictures, Queenie," Tina protested around a mouthful of potato. "It's not a necessary daily activity!"

"Then you can go shopping for something intensely magical that you can chatter about at work so long no one will ask you what you did with the rest of your vacation. Ooh! You should start looking into getting your own owl." Queenie smiled excitedly. "Mrs. Esposito is getting deaf enough that we could keep a girl one on the regular."

"But—"

"No buts. You don't have to get one this week, but you should start looking. You're not going to suddenly find the perfect owl unless you look for her. Now eat your supper, or you won't get your cocoa."

But Tina didn't make it long enough for cocoa. By the time she swallowed her last carrot, she was already drifting in and out of active consciousness. By some combination of Queenie's gentle prodding and her own stumbling, she managed to get into bed and slept through Friday night and into Saturday. At some point she got enough consciousness together to change out of her work things and pull on her pajamas before getting back into bed...or at least she assumed so, since when she woke up to see her enchanted alarm clock say SUNDAY, she was no longer in a rumpled skirt and blouse that she had been dreading ironing even from her dreams.

"You're positively famished, Teenie." The brunette witch up looked at her sister through bleary eyes. The urge to snark back was immediately mitigated by recognizing the breakfast tray being deposited on her lap, piled high with eggs and toast. "You wouldn't believe how loudly you were dreaming about food."

Tina cringed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. Did I wake you up?"

"No apologies. If you could sleep all day yesterday, you obviously needed it." Queenie perched on the edge of her bed. "So…"

"So?" Tina asked around a mouthful of eggs.

"Before putting together your breakfast, I _might_ have gone and got us tickets to the pictures, for a matinee this afternoon, at the Strand on Broadway. It's gonna be an absolute treat; they've got a real orchestra that plays along with the picture, and the girl at the ticket booth said it's loads of fun!"

Of course Queenie would just go ahead and get tickets. It was just as well, Tina supposed; if Queenie hadn't, Tina probably wouldn't have left the apartment all week "What's it called?"

"You just said it."

"Huh?"

"It. It's called _It_. I know it sounds silly with a title like that, but people think _It_ 's good, and people's minds usually don't agree that often unless something's true."

* * *

Queenie didn't ask what Tina thought of the picture as they walked out of the theater later that evening. That was pretty typical since Queenie almost never had to ask anyways, but still Tina was grateful because it was so much to process. The theater itself had been a spectacle, painted and gilded all over, and she was amazed that the orchestra managed to match the music with the moving pictures on-screen without some magic involved. The cartoon of the cat had been funny, the newsreel all right but uninteresting. The picture itself, though…

She wouldn't think about the picture tonight. She had all of tomorrow to think about it. Alone. All day.

* * *

Tina woke the next morning, bleary-eyed, to an empty bedroom. A cursory glance at the clock revealed that Queenie would have left for work some time ago, so she had approximately eight hours to kill.

Mechanically, she got dressed in her trousers and blouse and wandered into the kitchen to attempt to put together something resembling a breakfast "proper" breakfast by Queenie's definition of the term. A few flicks of her wand later (despite common office gossip, Tina _had_ passed Household Magics every year at Ilvermorny, even if it was by the skin of her teeth), she sat down to scrambled eggs and toast and set about to planning her day.

A trip to the bookstore would work, she decided. She did need a new mystery novel, and it might keep her busy while she tried to keep from getting too wrapped up inside her own head the rest of the week. While she was there, she could even look and see if there were any books about the Amazon. Maybe. Possibly. If she was really that interested in what a certain member of her acquaintance was facing. If, perhaps, she wanted to learn enough more to be able to ask good questions about where he was, what it was like to be off having exciting adventures chasing down dangerous unstudied magical creatures.

Oh gosh, she just caught herself sighing like some silly romantic heroine.

Without work to keep her brain busy, she couldn't hide from the truth any more: she was pining. Not only that, she was pining _melodramatically_ , just like those characters in the motion picture she saw yesterday. Salem's fires, she hoped she didn't look as pathetic as they did. Well, how pathetic most of them looked; the main character (what was her name again? Betty, Betty Lou...yes, that was it) hadn't made pining look melodramatic. Somehow she made it look glamorous. Perhaps that was part of that "it" thing that everyone was talking about in the film but no one could be bothered to define.

Whatever this "it" thing was, Tina could admit was living proof that Mr. Scamander had some measure of the male version of "it." "Utterly unselfconscious" he certainly was, even when he seemed to be uncomfortable or awkward. A law unto himself, an adventurer. Even though he'd nearly gotten her killed before, she'd fallen, and she'd fallen hard, after only a few weeks and a few letters. That had to be "it." Not in a Cyrus Waltham millionaire-about-town way, but in some way he'd inadvertently invented for himself, because Mr. Newton Scamander always did things his own way.

But Tina was no Betty Lou. She didn't have "it", and she didn't have the poise that blonde woman had either. She was just plain, frumpy Tina Goldstein, condemned career girl and old maid in the making. The only man whose attention she'd managed to hold for more than a few days was heaven knows where—heck, he could be dead for all she knew, eaten alive by piranhas or skewered on the spines of that possibly-poisonous snake—and even if he did make it out of the jungle alive, who's to say he wouldn't think the better of it, or that he would graciously and kindly deliver her copy of the book as he had implicitly promised and then rush off back to Europe to the company of a certain Miss Lestrange—

Nope, nope, nope. She was _not_ getting on that train of thought; she was smarter than that, even when wallowing in self-pity. Queenie said he wasn't going to throw himself in Leta Lestrange's arms the second he had an opportunity to do so, even if that Lestrange woman did have that "it" thing, and Queenie was rarely wrong. He wasn't the kind to throw someone away the second he didn't have to, or he wouldn't have helped Jacob. He wouldn't still be writing to her.

Wouldn't he?

Suddenly, she didn't feel so much like going to the bookstore. Or leaving the apartment, for that matter. Tina quickly reached for an old favorite novel and began to plow through the first page. If this wouldn't get her out of her bad mood, nothing would.

* * *

Apparently, nothing would break the misery that hung over her head. She tried reading her book, really. She tried sketching the characters as if for mug shots to keep her hands busy. She tried writing down all the clues as she went, connecting the facts into a web, like she did for real cases at work. At best, she'd make it a few pages before another morose pang would hit her in the chest and make her ache, _physically ache_ with the knowledge of her situation. Tina completely gave up on eating a real lunch in favor of munching on a dry slice of bread while moping, which felt as depressing as her mood. Her one victory was that she somehow managed not to cry, though her nose felt runny and her eyes stung.

Morning slid into afternoon, and afternoon slid almost unnoticed into evening. Monday might have slid into Tuesday without fanfare if Queenie hadn't run up the stairs and thrown open the apartment door when she came home, rushing over to her older sister curled up in the armchair.

"Porpentina Esther Goldstein, is _this_ what your brain gets up to when it's left alone?" Her words were harsh, but her tone was soft, and her hand on Tina's arm was gentle.

"I'm being silly, I know," Tina said, wiping her definitely-not-crying eyes dry with the heel of her free hand.

You're worn down to nothing, not _silly_ ," her sister said sympathetically. "Here I've been running around with Jacob all the time, and you've only got your letters right now. I shoulda seen you were hurting." Queenie's face suddenly went blank, then got a look of elation. "I know...what would Betty Lou do?"

"Considering Betty Lou's method was to use Cyrus's best friend and that Mr. Scamander's best friend is currently dating _you_ , I don't see why you're encouraging me to take a leaf out of that woman's book." There was also the fact that Tina was no Betty Lou, but Tina had thought through that particular realization enough times in one day to completely exhaust her.

"That's not the point, and I'm pretty sure his best friend is actually that Niffler," Queenie waved her hand dismissively. "The point is that Betty Lou _did something_. She didn't just sit around for her man to notice her. And you, Teenie, are good at doing something. Be more forward in your next letter. Ask him about his intentions."

" _No_." The alarm from that idea punctured Tina's depression. She'd spent the day doubting whether Mr. Scamander had any real interest in her at all, and here Queenie was talking about _intentions_?"Absolutely not. I can't, I _won't_. That's unfair to him, not when he's trying to get his book published."

"And you're being unfair to yourself by refusing to believe he could be genuinely sweet on you," Queenie insisted. "Remember that he's been badly hurt and doesn't want to be hurt again; he won't say anything to you unless you make it clear it'll be welcome."

Tina opened her mouth to argue, but her jaw froze.

Queenie might— _might_ —have a point there.

She still wouldn't take that particular piece of Queenie's advice. All else aside, it _was_ unfair to ask a man who currently had no obvious consistent source of support what his intentions were, not when he hadn't made any declarations on his own accord. But making it clear that he was welcome in her life, that she wanted to continue to hear from him no matter what (or where) he was going through, _that_ she could manage in good conscience.

"I'll have to wait until he writes back no matter what," Tina said with an air of finality. "But I'll tell him I'm getting an owl so I can write to him and I want to know to set things up so it can deliver to him."

"That's the spirit, Teenie," Queenie smiled encouragingly. "Now, do you feel up to walking out to the corner deli? I don't think either of us is in the mood for cooking tonight, and we both need a good meal and a good night sleep."

* * *

_Tap tap._

Tina bolted upright Tuesday morning.

_Tap tap._

It took Tina two seconds to recognize the sound for what it was. Whirling around to face her window, she found herself looking straight into large golden eyes belonging to a rather large and irritated owl.

"Oh gosh Nigel, how long have you been waiting out there?" She quickly grabbed her wand from the bedside table to vanish the window just long enough to let Nigel flutter to her bedstead and to summon a tin of sardines and a plate from the pantry. Once the fishy treat was decanted onto the plate, Nigel seemed to forgive her for leaving him out in the literal cold, and he allowed her to remove the letter on his ankle.

As she unfolded the parchment, out slipped a photograph, the motion clearly indicating its magical origin. Tina had to peer closely on the fast-moving image to be able to make out any detail, but after a few seconds she was able to make out Mr. Scamander, coat gone and sleeves rolled back, grinning like an idiot while holding what was probably the largest snake she'd ever seen. It was wriggling too much for her to identify spines in the photograph—no, there, it stayed still for a second to rest, and she could see a line of something down its back—and she couldn't help but wonder what color the snake would be in real life.

Tina then started on the letter.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_My apologies for the delay in replying to your letter; I wanted to be able to report to you the results of your suggestion. Not only was baiting the piranhas in a different part of the river successful, I also discovered that Tupi fire-serpents will not join a feeding frenzy if the prey's eyes have been removed prior to the bait being introduced to the water. Due to poor visibility during the frenzy, it suggests the detection of their preferred sustenance is another application of natural magic. The enclosed photograph is of the first serpent I managed to catch with your method. Thankfully for my hands, preliminary testing shows that the spines are at most mildly poisonous, or at least not dangerous to humans._

_As you said when we first met, I don't know much about the wizarding culture of America, but I hope I'm not overstepping in saying that it seems as if you tried to make things turn out as well they reasonably could without over-interfering with the family. I'm glad to hear the youngest of the Barebone children has been looked after too; losing all her family twice before the age of ten is a horror no child should have to endure, and having at least one sister near her must soften the pain a little._

_Thank you ever so much for the gingerbread. As you might imagine, the cuisine in the Amazon is most kindly characterized as "opportunistic;" it was a real treat that was much appreciated. I hope very much I can convince you to show me the bakery when I am next in New York._

_Sincerely,_

_Newt Scamander_

When he was next in New York…Tina couldn't help a smile from growing on her face, childish though it might be. Tuesday was looking like it would be a _lot_ better than Monday.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I am writing this letter to you while I am on vacation—yes, vacation. It was not my idea, but Mr. Graves and my sister apparently had my best interests in mind to make me take some time away from work. It's not been natural for me to take a break, and it took a few days for me to feel like myself, but now I think I can be properly lazy as instructed until next Monday. This is all due to reports of Grindelwald sightings in eastern Europe, which makes me hope that neither of us is in any immediate danger from human threats. _

_Speaking of threats, congratulations on subduing your piranhas! You look very proud of yourself in the photograph; I only hope you felt as proud as you look. Does this have any affect on your publisher's plans for your book? You wrote earlier that it might have been delayed to accommodate added information about the serpents, but I don't think you've written of your publisher since. Will your book be printing soon?_

_In other news, I've been thinking about purchasing an owl for a long time, and I have at last decided it's time to make the investment. As you are the person I correspond with most regularly, I would like to know if there's any way to modify your Repelling spell so whichever owl I purchase would be able to find you. I'm going to start looking at the local breeders later this week, letting them know I'm looking for a bird that can handle long journeys, but I won't make a final decision until I've heard back from you._

_Sincerely,_

_Tina Goldstein_

* * *

Late one evening, a train sat still at a tiny station in the middle of a jungle that was little more than a platform and a warehouse. The passengers had already come and gone from the train; it was only stopped until more coal could be added to the coal car, and then it would be on to Santa Marta. An owl hooted somewhere in the forest, not quite like the local species, but owl-like enough that few became curious. Seconds later, a window in one of the passenger compartments was opened far wider than its construction would typically allow; as it was on the jungle side of the train rather than the station side, no one noticed. By the time the train pulled out of the station, the owl was gone from the forest, the window was back to its normal closed state, and nothing was out of the ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film "It" came out February 19, 1927 in NYC. It probably wasn't showing at the April 3, 1927 matinee at The Strand in Manhattan, but I've been unable to find out what WAS showing, so we'll consider that a small revision to history. You can find the complete film on YouTube if you're interested; it's a neat bit of film history.
> 
> Special thanks to Melissa and KatieHavok for helping me get this chapter into somewhat presentable form; people (thankfully) don't know what atrocity you save them from.


	7. Moss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the sinking depression of the last chapter, who's up for something short and fun?

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_With the segment on the Tupi fire-serpent now complete, I am happy to announce that my book is heading to final editing before printing. Based on prior discussion with my publisher, I expect the first set of copies will be printed sometime in July. In two days I will be sailing for Liverpool for the final discussions over the last-minute additions and details about the layout. I wish I had known before I began this book how critical everyone would believe the layout to be! But it will be worth it in the end, I hope._

_Was your vacation pleasant? While I feel sorry for the Sejm having to deal with Grindelwald at the moment, I confess I am glad to know you are decidedly more safe for it and glad to hear you were able to take a rest. Knowing you, Miss Goldstein, I am sure you put everything into your work that you can, so I can only assume it must have been well-needed and well-deserved._

_Regarding your search for an owl: I have sadly discovered that an average owl salesman will overestimate the abilities of his "merchandise" if he believes it will secure a sale. I do, however, know of one responsible breeder in Boston, a Mr. Arthur McArthur (no, the name is sadly not a joke) who found Harold for me. I do not know if he is still in the business as it has been several years since I last saw him, but if you should find him, mention that you are looking for an owl capable of finding me (I remember him being a bit cautious around new customers without an introduction). He will know what's needed. I should warn you it may take Arthur a while to find a suitable bird, which may or may not be a problem depending on your other reasons for getting your owl. In any case, the spells to create an exception to a Repelling spell require the owl and the person concerned to be in the same general vicinity as each other, so we will have to rely on Nigel and Harold until my trip to New York._

_It is always good to hear from you, and I hope that I will be able to give you a more firm date for_ ~~_my visit_ ~~_your book delivery soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Newt Scamander_

* * *

Tina stepped out through the giant arched doorways of South Central Station to look at the streets of Boston. It was beautiful for early May, bright sun in the sky promising that spring was well and truly begun, nowhere near as dark and closed-in as New York. This trip would be worth it even if her information about the whereabouts of McArthur Owleries was outdated.

"One-twelve Lincoln, One-twelve Lincoln," Tina muttered absently to herself as she crossed the street. She'd snuck a peek at the official Auror Office map archives--one of the perks of the job, having access to maps of every city with a wizard population--and it was apparently only a few blocks from the train station. As her return ticket to New York was for another overnight train, she took her time meandering to the given address, gazing at the displays in the windows until she reached the address. As expected, the narrow One-twelve Lincoln Street shop had its windows boarded up and probably looked to all the passing No-Majs like it had been abandoned, but her witch's eyes could see the small but distinct sign for "McArthur Owlery, Open 9 am to 6 pm, Monday through Saturday". Tina knocked briskly, waited a few seconds, then turned the old brass knob.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. It wasn't... _that_ unpleasant, which is to say she'd smelled a lot worse things in her time, but you couldn't miss the smell of dozens of owls in a room. The shop, which must have had an extension charm on it, had its right-hand wall completely covered with a honeycomb of roosts, most of which were inhabited by owls of every size and shape she was used to seeing. In front of the wall stood a long counter with several perches on it, and behind the counter stood a rather guarded-looking wizard.

The man in the shop--who she assumed had to be Mr. McArthur--appeared to be an energetic sixty, wiry and weathered, hand resting on the grip of a wand in a belt holster like he expected her to burst in flinging curses in all directions. So this is what Mr. Scamander meant by "a bit cautious."

"Morning," the wizard said with a mild Scottish accent, gaze wary. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

Tina steeled her resolve. She was in a shop, for goodness' sake, shopping. There was no need for her to be nervous, particularly when she probably could outhex him if it came down to it. "I'm looking for an owl capable of transcontinental and transoceanic letter delivery, preferably a quieter one. My...a friend recommended that you might be able to help with this."

"A friend, you say?" The man peered at her, fingers of his wand hand twitching over the grip. "Does this _friend_ have a name?"

Tina swallowed instinctively, keenly aware of how long it would take her to reach for her wand if need be. "Mr. Newton Scamander. He said you'd helped him find one of his owls--Harold?"

That was apparently the key to breaking through Scottish reticence. "Well, bless me!" Mr. McArthur's face broke into an open smile, and his hand dropped to lean on the counter. "That lad's still kicking...mind you, I think he's got liquid luck running through his veins to still be in one piece. You seen him recently?"

"I met him in December when he came through New York, but I've been writing to him ever since. He was well as of a month ago."

"So you're looking for an owl that can keep up with him?" Mr. McArthur winked and turned around to the wall of owls before Tina could protest the insinuation. "You've come at a good time; I acquired a few birds from the old European breeding lines a few years back, and the first clutches have just finished being trained up. Ah!" The wizard whistled a complicated but short tune, and a barn owl fluttered down out of the crowd and onto a counter perch.

"She may not look like much at first glance, but this girl here's got a line that's been bred for endurance for the last seven hundred years," Mr. McArthur said proudly. "She's not for heavy loads, but if you've got something small and light for her, she could carry it all the way to China. Barn owls are good for transoceanic letter delivery too since most of the world has some barn owl breed or another; don't need to worry about the birders."

Tina cautiously extended a finger slowly towards the owl to try to gauge a reaction. When it was clear she wasn't going to snap, the witch gently began to stroke the owl's head.

"You seem to know more about owls than the average city witch," Mr. McArthur observed.

"My father's father bred them," Tina said, watching as the owl rubbed her heart-shaped face against Tina's finger. She'd almost forgotten how affectionate owls could be. "American barn owls, though. Nothing exotic."

"Really? What was his name?"

"Moshe Goldstein."

"Well, I'll be. Old Mo's granddaughter. I've got a few birds here who've got some of Old Mo's stock in their bloodlines; I think this one might have a bit in her; I'll have to check the book." He gestured to the owl on the perch. "She seems to be taking a liking to you in any case."

"And I'm taking a liking to her," Tina said absently. It would be a funny coincidence if this owl were descended from one of Zayde's, and Queenie would certainly be over the moon about it, but she could feel herself already falling in love with the bird regardless of what the lineage was.

"Then I think we've found a good match," Mr. McArthur smiled knowingly. "Now, will you be needing any owl kit to go with her?"

Tina's eyes stayed fixed on the owl, who blinked expressively back at her. "I've got the essentials at home for when Mr. Scamander's owls need a rest, but I think she should at least get her own perch."

"Right you are, Miss Goldstein."

* * *

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I assume you're in England now; it's taken me a while to write back as I've had to jump back into the thick of things after my vacation. We've got an ongoing case of No-Majs popping up who've managed to get Gigglewater somehow, which is taking up most of my time. It's perplexing and obviously needs to be stopped, but at least No-Maj authorities are interpreting it as drug intoxication and are not suspecting a supernatural explanation._

_I had a free pair of days this week, so I was able to take your advice and got up to Boston to McArthur's Owlery yesterday via overnight train. Mr. McArthur sends his regards and asks if you're "still kicking." Apparently, he's gotten into endurance owls since you got Harold, because I was able to get an owl right away. Betty Lou (Queenie named her, and I have to agree it fits nicely) is a barn owl mix with a long line; Mr. McArthur sent me a copy of the papers once since I told him that my grandfather had been an owl breeder, and it turns out there's a few of my grandfather's birds in her family history. The world is evidently a much smaller place than I once believed it to be. Nigel seemed to not mind her too much, though we've kept Betty Lou in the bedroom and him in the living room to be on the safe side._

_Best of luck wrangling your publisher, and I hope you get good news from them soon!_

_Sincerely,_

_Tina Goldstein_

* * *

This particular corner of the Moss Valley was lush and green; except for the sound of the coal trains, it was blissfully apart from civilization. On the banks of a small lake sat a man next to a suitcase, fishing pole in hand as he gazed contentedly at the water. All of a sudden, a large owl came soaring over the trees, swooping down to the lake's surface to grab a fish. The man gawked for a second, then sighed as the owl glided over to land next to him.

"You just had to scare away the fish," the man groaned. "I would have fed you when you landed, promise."

The owl blinked, entirely unrepentant, before swallowing his fish.

"All right, all right. Will you let me take the letter?"

The owl regarded the man carefully, then seemed to decide to cooperate and extended a taloned foot. Quickly before the owl could change his mind, the man untied the letter and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Will you go down on your own, or will I need to carry you?"

The owl hooted and stayed shut.

"You're a handful, you know that?" the man grumbled, but he unlatched the suitcase and stepped inside. "Come on. By the time you get settled, maybe the fish will have calmed down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of different barn owl (Tyto alba) subspecies, and biologists have noted that viable, fertile subspecies hybrids are common in the wild where subspecies ranges overlap. So the idea of a deliberately bred "barn owl mix" is actually not too different than what happens naturally!
> 
> So as a sort of outline for what to expect from the rest of this story: I anticipate another chapter for May, one or two for June, and one for July, for which will be the last chapter of THIS part of the series. That last chapter is going to take a while, but you'll be getting a three-for-one deal on that one; I plan to release the first chapter of the NEXT story as well as a relevant one-shot at the same time. I'm also currently working on a one-shot to cover Passover (which happened between this chapter and the last), which is more Tina-and-Queenie centric than Tina-and-Newt.


	8. New Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta, Melissa, for putting up with Tina and Theseus's awkwardness.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_It appears your wishes of good fortune for "wrangling my publisher" have worked; while we are still negotiating over certain details regarding the more traditionally-threatening creatures, he's been more agreeable than he has been in past meetings. After the text details are finalized, it's on to addressing details of the sketches. Why my publisher wanted sketches of some of these creatures is beyond me; I am fairly certain that Pickett is a better artist than I am. I suppose we'll see if my horrible drawings will doom the chances of a second edition._

_It's glad to hear Mr McArthur is still in business; when I come to America next I probably ought to make a trip to Boston to have him give Harold, Nigel, and Maude a thorough looking-over._ ~~_Would you be willing to come_ ~~ _It might be beneficial for Betty Lou to be examined as well after she's adjusted to becoming a working bird; sometimes problems don't arise until after an owl has started taking longer journeys than those for training._

_As always, wishing you the best of luck and safety with your work; I'm sure you will get to the bottom of your Gigglewater case soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Newt Scamander_

* * *

"Goldstein, Mr. Graves needs those Gigglewater papers as soon as you can get 'em. He ain't lookin' happy."

Tina rolled her eyes without looking up from her papers. Yates might as well be saying that the sky was blue. Mr. Graves was never happy these days. Office gossip was that he hadn't even smiled in close to two decades; Tina would certainly believe it. "I'll get it to him as soon as I get these checked for completeness."

"Hope it's soon, for your sake. He's got people coming in and out of his office, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of it was about the Gigglewater case."

Once Yates left her cubby, Tina started shuffling her papers in order by date. Over the last few months, her team had managed to track down every probable No-Maj speakeasy that was getting the Gigglewater in all five boroughs, and she and Russo had connected every single one to Cola Shiro's people. It wasn't anything new to the department, No-Majs distributing magical goods that they didn't know were magical, but the confirmed mafia connection made it far more dangerous and meant they'd have to get out the kid gloves to find the mystery magical supplier. It might be another month or two before they could even act on their intel, which would make Mr. Graves even less happy than usual. Once satisfied she had gotten everything, she shoved her pile into a manila folder, tapped it twice on her desk to make the pile look more like a deliberate stack, and began to march towards Mr. Graves's office.

She'd never been on a mafia case before, not like there had ever been many or that they'd been big. Russo and Moretti could usually take care of it themselves, having come straight from Sicily and speaking fluent Italian. An Obliviation here and there, and that was all that was required. But this was big, too big for two Aurors. There had to be multiple people, not just one rogue wizard, involved in the Gigglewater ring to move that much Gigglewater. Salem's fires, maybe they were producing it themselves; it would certainly explain the volume and the fact they couldn't match the Gigglewater they'd "borrowed" from speakeasies to any licensed brewers. Since it was all in the city, they'd most likely be brewing somewhere in New York or New—

Tina was so deep in thought that she didn't notice the collision until her folder was already halfway to the floor, scattering all the pages down the hallway. After she'd spent that time getting it so carefully arranged, too! When she found her footing again, she automatically reached for her wand to start redirecting the pages back into the folder (some of those papers were confidential, they couldn't be lying around in public hallways anyone could come through). "I'm so sorry," she said without looking up from her paper gathering.

"Please, no apology necessary."

Mercy Lewis, that was a British accent. A very familiar British accent. Tina forced herself to scramble the last of her papers in order before she stood up to look at white-blond hair, scar at the temple...this was _not_ going to be her day. And right in front of Mr. Graves's office, too.

"Mr. Scamander," Tina squeaked, clutching her folder to her chest.

"Miss Goldstein." Theseus Scamander blinked twice, rapidly, then settled back to his normal cool exterior. "You look well."

"Thanks," Tina replied reflexively. "Are you doing well?"

"Quite well, thank you."

They stood there, silent, in front of Mr. Graves's office door. Somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked loudly over the stillness. _Tick, tock._ He stared at her, she stared at him. Neither moving.

"I did send the letter," Tina blurted out, anything to end the silence. "I have no idea if he read it or not, but he did receive it."

"I expected as much," Theseus Scamander said pragmatically. "He's managed to avoid every attempt I've made to contact him since he was seventeen; I didn't expect him to change his mind now. But one must try." The blond man stood for a moment, then his eyes narrowed a fraction of a hair in curiosity. "Did he tell you why we have had no communication in so long?"

 _Tick, tock_.

Tina thought carefully. She'd tried as best she could to avoid speculating what exactly had happened to make Mr. Scamander cut himself off; she'd most likely be wrong, anyways, and guesses helped no one. Still... "He mentioned something happening in January of 1919," Tina admitted.

Theseus Scamander snorted. "I take it he didn't mention that the 'something' was me delivering a strong left hook to his face. Of course. Newton never was the sort to complain, even when he's been badly wronged." He straightened up even more—she wouldn't have thought it possible, but apparently he had an extendable spine—and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well, there you are, Miss Goldstein. The Scamander family secret. The first time I saw my brother in nearly six years, and it was to break his nose. I can't tell you why I did it—Official Secrets Act—but trust me when I say that things came to light in the following weeks which made it clear that I had been wholly unjustified, and I tried to make amends."

"But he's Repelled every owl except his own since the War," Tina muttered, thinking aloud to herself. It made sense in a way that made her heart ache. Newt Scamander wasn't a fighter, at least not in the same way his brother was. He wasn't the sort to put himself deliberately in the line of fire unless there was something he wanted to protect directly behind him. If he thought his brother would only write to him to do the literary equivalent of punching him in the nose, he wouldn't wait around to get punched.

"Indeed," Theseus replied with a raised eyebrow, "which makes it all the more interesting that he has chosen to write to _you_. You must have made quite the impression for him to decide to do so after only a few weeks of your acquaintance."

_Tick, tock._

Mercy Lewis, she was blushing. Badly. Whether from embarrassment or offense, she didn't know. What was it with Scamander men making her lose her composure? "He first wrote to ask me to keep him up-to-date on a mutual acquaintance's general welfare, Mr. Scamander. Nothing more than that."

"Of course." To Tina's immense relief, he took a step backwards, giving her some more space to breathe for dignity. "I had no intention of implying anything untoward; Newton may be a savage in some ways, but not when it comes to the fairer sex."

 _Tick, tock_.

"I understand that you are in his confidence and have no intention of asking you to tell me anything you believe he would not wish me to know about his doings and whereabouts," he said smoothly—it was unfair, outright unfair that he could interrupt silence and not sound like a total idiot—"but I would ask that, if you were to receive word of his demise, that you would pass on the message to me. It appears you are more likely to be informed of such a thing than we would be in England."

Tina nodded. "I can do that." While she had done her level best to _not_ think about what would happen if her Mr. Scamander died, she was certain that, if he had arranged for her to be informed, she would have tried to pass the message along without being asked to do so. Theseus Scamander was definitely not her favorite person in the world, but leaving him wondering forever whether her Mr. Scamander was alive or dead would have been beyond cruel.

_Tick, tock._

At last fortune smiled on Tina, for the monumental wooden door then creaked open, and Mr. Graves stepped out between the two. Thank goodness; she wasn't sure she could have maintained the conversation any longer.

"I'll take those papers," Mr. Graves said to Tina, who proffered them gratefully, before turning to the younger man. "Mr. Scamander, sorry to keep you waiting."

"No trouble at all, Mr. Graves. It was good to speak with you again, Miss Goldstein."

"Likewise." Hardly.

The door closed in front of her, and Tina breathed a loud sigh of relief. Mercy Lewis, she needed something sweet after that. She searched her pockets—she usually had a Baby Ruth or something somewhere, just in case she had a long day of legwork and needed a little something to keep going—when her hand brushed against sturdy matte paper.

The Tupi fire-serpent photograph. The Mr. Scamander and Tupi fire-serpent photograph.

Tina bit her lip. Theseus Scamander probably would have loved to see the photograph, and as family, he had a right of sorts to see it...but he might ask to keep it. And he might ask why she happened to have the photograph conveniently on her person (when, really, it was just that she'd put it in there for some odd reason she couldn't remember, and there never seemed to be a better place for it when she took it out to try and find it a more permanent home). Besides, it contained information about her Mr. Scamander's past whereabouts, and to reveal that would be to betray his trust. No, she couldn't share the photograph.

But.

Tina bustled over to the department secretary's desk just at the entrance to the department. Theadora Kirilova, Dora to anyone she liked reasonably well, was idly transfiguring the quills on her desk into various kinds of flowers. Perfect; when Dora was busy, she tended to screech like a banshee when asked for personal favors.

"Dora, would you mind giving a message to Mr. Scamander before he leaves?" Tina said hurriedly, grabbing her investigator's notebook and pencil from her pocket. "He won't expect it, but I don't think he'll be surprised either."

"Sure, Tina."

Before she could think better of it, Tina flipped to a clean page in the notebook and scribbled: _He's written a book. It's expected to print in July, but I do not yet know when it will be for sale, the title, or if it will be published under his real name. When I learn this information, I can pass it onto you if you are interested._ Satisfied that her meaning would be clear enough, Tina tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Dora, text up. Let her look; that way, at least someone in the office would know her communication with the head of the British Auror Office wasn't anything that would trigger a conflict-of-interest investigation.

"Thanks a bunch."

"It's no trouble. I'll see he gets it."

—

"Tina, Mr. Scamander left a note for you."

Tina stopped short in the office entrance just as she was about to make a dash to the elevator to beat the end-of-the-day rush. Dora stood up from her desk and held out a folded slip of parchment, sealed with a glowing wax emblem. "He said to press your wand-hand thumb on the seal to open it, but to wait until you get home to do it."

"Thanks, Dora. Sorry to ask you to play messenger."

"Don't worry about it; it's not like you do this often."

Shoving the note in her pocket alongside the photograph, Tina made her way to the main floor of the MACUSA headquarters and Apparated home to indignant hoots from Nigel and rustled feathers from Betty Lou. Queenie was out; she'd told Tina the night before that she had a date with Jacob and wouldn't be there for supper, which was fine with Tina. Tina wasn't quite sure if she wanted to have to explain why she had a very official-looking sealed message from a high-ranking member of the British Auror Office, even if it was personal. Particularly _because_ it was personal.

Her half-finished reply to Mr. Scamander's letter lay on the kitchen table from where she'd left off the night prior, impossible to ignore, but that wasn't the Mr. Scamander she needed to worry about right now. Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved the parchment and did as instructed. The seal glittered for half a second, then disintegrated under her fingers. Huh, that was a neat bit of magic she'd never seen before. She unfolded the parchment to reveal handwriting that was elegant and old-fashioned, like his brother's but more precise.

_Please do. Send any owls to Ulysses Greengrass-Popplewell, as my personal correspondence is Disguised to that name. My family and myself are in your debt._

Tina gulped to herself and sat down at the table. She had just been given the personal contact information for an important British government official. Of course, the fact he was an important government official was completely incidental to why she'd been given the information in the first place, but still. After committing the name to memory, Tina flicked her wand to set the parchment on fire over one of the breakfast plates she'd neglected to put in the sink that morning; if he'd gone to the trouble to use a very fancy bit of magic to make sure Dora didn't snoop on the message, he probably wanted her to destroy it.

Once the parchment was nothing but a tiny pile of ash he looked over to the letter and bit her lip. Should she tell her Mr. Scamander about meeting his brother again? While it wasn't any of her business what went on between the two men ( _yet_ , she could hear Queenie's voice piping up in the back of her head), the last time she'd mentioned Theseus Scamander it seemed to...well, making him upset might be an overexaggeration, but this was _Mr. Scamander_. If Queenie was right, her Mr. Scamander buried his pains deep. While lying by omission wasn't right, it didn't seem right to do something that she knew would hurt him when it didn't do him any good at the same time.

As Tina picked up the quill, she prayed she was making the right call.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I'm sorry this letter will be short. I've been spending almost all of my waking hours working on the Gigglewater case, and unfortunately, until we know the extent of it I can't say much more than I've said already, just in case this letter is intercepted._

_While I can't comment on your artistic skill, having never observed it, I think I can be safe in estimating that you are more skilled than a Bowtruckle, even one as extraordinary as Pickett. And it seems to me that, if the illustrations end up being that much of a problem, perhaps future editions could use photographs; I know it's possible to print them nowadays._

~~_I would love_ ~~ _As you are the expert between us, I will take your advice about Betty Lou; when you know a little more accurately when you will next be in New York, I could arrange for a few days off so we might travel to see Mr. McArthur_ ~~_together_ ~~ _at the same time. For practicality's sake._

_Sincerely,_

_Tina Goldstein_

* * *

Late one night as spring was shifting to summer, a man walked around the edge of a forest clearing, every few steps stopping to wave around a stick and mutter a few words under his breath. Just as he completed his circuit and turned to walk back towards the suitcase sitting in the center of the clearing, an owl hooted. The man looked into the surrounding trees and gestured.

"Come on, Nigel, the wards only work up to six feet off the ground. You'll be fine."

A few seconds later, a large owl glided silently over the clearing, fluttering only enough to slow down to perch atop the man's head. The man winced as the owl's claws caught on his scalp.

"I know, I know. The Atlantic is a rough crossing. Does carp sound good for breakfast? We've had really good luck lately with the fishing."

The owl hooted in approval, and the man chuckled wryly.

"Well, all I can say is I sincerely hope you behave better for her than you do for me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cola Schiro's people" is a reference to the Bonanno family; to the best of my ability to determine, they weren't referred to as "the Bonannos" until after 1931. However, I'm not an expert on La Cosa Nostra, so if anyone has any good resources for me or corrections I'd really appreciate it.
> 
> So I've got three chapters until the end, and one of those chapters isn't committed to a plot. If there's something you'd like to see that DOESN'T involve Newt showing up (it's going to happen in the story after this one, promise) or anything over a T rating, throw it in a comment below.


	9. Halifax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this chapter took so long to come out! Real Life happened pretty intensely for a while, but this chapter managed to pop out eventually. Special thanks to my beta and bestie Melissa for putting up with me moaning about writer's block for forever and KatieHavok for chearleading me through the tedious bits.

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_Your well-wishes seem to have done the trick again, as my publisher has finally relented into keeping only a bare minimum of illustrations in the book._ _Finally_ _, they're going to start typesetting the book and making the sketch blocks (apparently they have an artist make the blocks; my only hope is that the artist takes substantial artistic liberty with them within the realm of realism). Assuming no last-minute hiccoughs, the book will print next month, and I should be able to deliver your copy sometime in late July or early August, fate and weather permitting._

_As not much of interest has happened since my last owl, I am enclosing some of Pickett's most recent works to make up for the lack of other content; he's been more willing of late to keep his artistic efforts confined to parchment specifically set aside for that purpose. He has also shown a rather unexpected fondness for purple ink, hence its prominence._

_Sincerely,_

_Newt Scamander_

* * *

Friday evening saw Tina stretched out in the old armchair reading her latest owl while snacking on a small bowl of grapes. Dinner was on the table (pre-prepared fish courtesy of the corner deli, carrots and potatoes boiled by herself _despite_ the office betting pool's odds that Tina would burn water if she tried cooking, thank you very much) and held in stasis until Queenie got back from whatever it was she was doing these days; Tina had stopped questioning to save her own sanity.

A few minutes into examining the first of Pickett's "artworks" (based on what modern art seemed to look like these days, Pickett might actually qualify as a master of the medium), Tina heard the telltale clatter of the door shutting and heels clattering up the stairs. "Dinner's ready as soon as your hands are washed," she said as the door opened.

"Tina, thanks awfully," Queenie dropped a kiss on Tina's hair as she made her way for the sink. "So…," she began conversationally, "WeatherDiv says that we're going to have great weather on Sunday."

Tina didn't look up from her mail. "That's nice."

"We both have Sunday off this week," she continued as she turned the faucet on.

"Yep." It wasn't anything unusual, after all; Queenie never worked weekends, and Tina only worked every other weekend except for emergencies.

"So it's the _perfect_ day to get out to Coney Island! Before you argue that it isn't a 'necessary daily activity', you've proved that taking time off once in a while _is_ necessary for you to be able to do your work, so Coney Island _is_ a necessary activity, even if it isn't 'daily'."

"Queenie…"

" _Please_ , Teen." She turned off the water and reached for the hand towel. "I won't even complain if you get a hot dog for lunch."

 _That_ made Tina put down her mail and start paying attention. "You really want to go, don't you?"

The blonde nodded, pulling out the puppy dog eyes. Puppy dog eyes that Tina _really_ should be more immune to by now, but apparently exposure was not inoculation.

"All right. But I want that hotdog promise in writing."

Queenie grinned from ear to ear. "You've got it, Teen! Just you wait, you'll have the best time ever."

* * *

Sunday came around. Tina's half-hearted prayers for rain went unheeded, and the day started without a cloud in the sky and a Queenie so cheerful it bordered on annoying.

"Just you wait!" Queenie grinned as she half-dragged Tina out of the bedroom to shovel some breakfast cheesy eggs into her. "The neighbors upstairs went two weeks ago, and they ain't thought of much else but the lights and the shows and the rides since. You'll love it."

"You're _sure_ it's safe?"

"It's as safe as anything," Queenie promised. "If we see anyone we know there, they're not doing what they're supposed to either. It's a harmless secret. 'Sides, we both know the Auror office has a lot more important things to do than sneak around Coney Island looking for witches and wizards spending their days off doing nothing but have a day of fun."

Tina grumbled something under her breath, but Queenie did have a point, and it helped quell the urge to scan behind her every twenty feet as they walked like No-Majs towards the safe alley and Apparated to the Canal Street station. No Aurors popped out of the turnstiles to grab them as they entered the subway. No alarms went off when they transferred to the Sea Beach Line, piling into a subway car full of families dressed for a day out in the summer heat. By the time they stepped into the sunlight of Coney Island, she had almost convinced herself that nothing disastrous was going to happen.

Well, nothing disastrous of the magical variety, because the place was absolutely packed and looked like a stampede waiting to happen. Families were dashing about, parents herding packs of children towards various destinations; couples were meandering around like they were the only two people on the entire boardwalk getting in the way of everything else. Thankfully, Queenie seemed to know exactly where they were going, and she pulled Tina through the crowds past various booths and stalls and even entrances to some glittering theaters.

"Where are we going?" Tina shouted over the crowd, trying not to stumble as she tripped over yet another small child.

"Luna Park!" Queenie shouted back. "The neighbors think it's the bee's knees, you'll see! It's just up ahead."

Two twisting roads around, and Tina was faced with such a spectacle she couldn't believe she had ever thought she could have missed it. Giant red crescent moons with gold lettering spelling out "LUNA", tall square spires jutting up higher into the sky just in case it wasn't ornate enough, three humongous rosettes covered in electric lightbulbs that were probably turned on at night to make the whole place sparkle, all hanging over an enormous gate. Tina had walked through Times Square at least once a week ever since she graduated from Ilvermorny, and even that wasn't as decorated as this.

"Here it is!" Queenie exclaimed, turning back to her sister with an excited grin a mile wide, curls bouncing under her broad-brimmed straw hat as she hopped with glee. "Isn't it wonderful?"

It was all Tina could do but nod. It might literally be treason to be here, but it was absolutely marvelous. Thank goodness Queenie talked her into coming. Queenie's smile turned knowing and he pulled Tina into the entry line, paid their admittance fees, and guided Tina into the magical world that was Luna Park.

Everything inside was covered in glinting glass bulbs, and there were more of those towers that seemed like they came straight out of Tina's more exotic mystery novels. Smaller rides were everywhere, things that looked like large swings and tiny automobiles in pens interspersed with booths selling all kinds of food and drink that made Tina's mouth water just to think of it. In the center of the park was what looked like an artificial lagoon, glinting shallowly in the summer sun and being interrupted occasionally by a boat shooting over the surface of the water with excited laughing patrons in it. That looked…fun. Like something she could enjoy.

"We'll do that ride first," Queenie said, grabbing Tina's hand and guiding her—this time without a single even half-hearted protest—further into the park. "I think it's called Shoot the Chutes, or something like that. Everyone loves it."

By the time they got to the entrance of the ride (Queenie was right, it was called Shoot the Chutes) it became clear what the ride exactly was. After they waited in line—and the line was rather long, seeing as the summer heat was in full force—they'd ride up to the top of an artificial hill, get in one of the boats, and ride down the hill to splash in the water at the bottom. Mercy Lewis, she'd always longed to go fast, _really fast_ like she was flying on a broom without having to fear falling off, and it seemed like this was the perfect way to do it. And with the water at the bottom it'd help cool her off to boot. It was an amazing day out already, and it had barely even started. Still...

"Queenie...why this?"

"Hmm?"

"Why all...this?" Tina gestured around her. "The pictures too. Not that it hasn't been grand, but why?"

Queenie looked at her sympathetically. "Because I miss you."

Tina blinked. "We share a _bedroom_."

"But ever since December, we haven't had as much time for each other," Queenie maintained. "You've had your work, and I've had Jacob, and it feels like we're running in opposite directions all the time, and who knows how much longer it'll be until your man comes and whisks you off to the Amazon or the Serengeti or Europe."

Tina felt her face grow hot, and it wasn't the June sun. "You can't know that's going to happen! It isn't right for me to ask, and he hasn't said anything—"

"You don't have to be a mind-reader _or_ a fortune-teller to know it's what he's thinking when he writes his letters," Queenie said reprovingly. "Even if it's not something he could really do yet, he's thinking about it. Give him that much credit; he wouldn't be asking you to Boston if he wasn't."

"We both need to meet with Mr. McArthur," Tina argued, darting her eyes to the No-Maj family in front of them in line to make sure they weren't listening too carefully out of habit.

"I will bet you a new summer hat that when he comes back to New York, he'll make his intentions clear," Queenie declared, not bothering to lower her voice. "He may not ask for your hand, but he'll ask you to wait for him. Mark my words. A man doesn't ask to sail across an ocean to see a _friend_ —yes, even Mr. Scamander," she finished with a glare, clearly picking up on Tina's thought that _there's a first time for everything, and Mr. Scamander is no ordinary man_.

"But—"

Queenie laid her hand gently on Tina's forearm. "If he asks you to make a choice, don't worry about me. I'll be all right. There's some nice gals in the secretary pool I could move in with if you get dragged to London or Paris. I'd never forgive myself if you said no to a man because you didn't want to leave me."

Tina looked at her sister askance. Something wasn't right, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. "Queenie, you're starting to scare me."

"Oh gosh, I didn't mean to do that. We're supposed to be getting afraid of Shoot the Chutes." Queenie giggled and smiled, and all seemed right with the world again.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_Congratulations on getting a finalized timeline for your book! It sounds like it must be a relief after so much work and arguing. Since this might be the last letter that reaches you before your voyage to America, I wish you calm seas and freedom from seasickness; it's not something I've experienced, but several of my coworkers have said it's absolutely horrible._

_I actually have something of interest to write to you about, because Queenie decided we should go to Coney Island for a day last weekend. There's actually several amusement parks very close together, and we went to the one Queenie says everyone thinks is the best, and I have to assume she's right because it was marvelous. There were more rides and shows than we could possibly experience in a day, but we did manage the famous Journey to the Moon ride, the waterfall ride, some contraption where you slide down a track in a round cart that was very fun (though it seemed to make Queenie sick...a lot of the No-Majs didn't seem to do well with it either). The most bizarre thing was a sideshow with very young babies in these glass box things; according to the sign, the glass boxes were No-Maj inventions that help No-Maj babies who are born early survive better. I'm not sure why they're at an amusement park and not at a hospital, but maybe No-Majs do things more differently than us than I thought._

_Work has been less exciting than usual, which is a good thing in its own way.  The Gigglewater case is starting to wrap up; it seems like it's a lot smaller than we had originally thought, so as soon as we track down the conspirators' location it should be open-and-shut.  It'll be nice to get this finally closed!_

_Since I'll have the free time when the case is wrapped up, depending on how much time you have when you come to America, maybe we could go to one of the Coney Island parks?  Assuming weather cooperates, of course._

_Sincerely,_

_Tina Goldstein_

* * *

Late one afternoon, an auburn-haired man shuffled down a gangplank at the Halifax docks, a suitcase gripped tightly in one hand, his passport in the other. He fidgeted as he stood in the customs line, constantly surveying the bright skies above him as if expecting to see something drop out of the clouds.

When he reached the front of the line, his customs agent was an elderly gentleman who looked a few years off retirement age, and the younger man dutifully handed over his passport for inspection. The officer glanced through the pages cursorily before looking to the case. "Anything to declare?"

"No, sir." His gaze darted back up to the sky.

The officer's eyes narrowed a bit when the younger man looked back. "See something?"

"Some kind of gull, I think. I'm a bit of a birder, you see, have been since my school days." The younger man flashed a nervous smile before looking down at his passport.

The officer shrugged. "Well, then. Welcome to Canada, Mr. Scamander."

"Thanks awfully."

Half an hour later, auburn-haired man stood in an alleyway, glaring at a large owl that sat perched on a trashbin lid.

"Really, Nigel, I thought I trained you better than to go through such a crowded area in daylight. You're lucky there weren't any real birders around or we would have had a mess on our hands."

The owl hooted remorselessly and preened his feathers.

The man sighed with exasperation. "All right, fine. But this is the last time you're getting away with this kind of bad behaviour, do you hear? I will start sending Harold if you force me to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1927, the most popular sideshow at Coney Island by far was an exhibit of premature babies in incubators at Luna Park. The doctor who ran the sideshow, Martin Couney, did so only after his attempts to convince New York hospitals to invest in incubators failed; the only place that would purchase and run the incubators was Coney Island, so to Coney Island he went. The entirety of babies' care was paid for with admissions tickets; the families of the babies weren't charged at all. While the sideshow seems bizarre and unethical to us today, the operation saved the lives of 85% of their patients who would otherwise have been expected to die within their first month of life.


	10. Ontario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this author's note and haven't just read chapter 9, please go back and reread it. A few small but significant changes were made. Special thanks to Melissa and KatieHavok for the beta help!

_Dear Miss Goldstein,_

_I apologise in advance for such a short letter; I'm writing to you from Canada. A bit of unexpected urgent business has redirected me there for a time—nothing that ought to worry you, I promise._

_As I will be in your part of the world, would it be possible for me to call upon you when my business is concluded? I believe it will be another ten to twelve days._

_Sincerely,_

_Newt Scamander_

* * *

"Gather 'round, everybody," Mr. Graves addressed the room full of Aurors. "Here's the situation: we have traced the contraband Gigglewater to a plant in Brooklyn. Goldstein and Russo identified a group of three wizards between the ages of twenty and fifty, who should all arrive there between twenty-three-hundred hours and midnight according to their usual schedule.

"You've got your assigned teams and your organization bracelets. Aparate to your designated landing zones and walk to your jump spots—or, for Goldstein and Russo, your location inside the factory. Once you're in your jump spot, activate the bracelet. Goldstein will activate hers once they've verified that the hideout is indeed currently occupied. When all the bracelets are activated, the stones in them will grow hot, and that's your cue to Aparate inside the building. You are to disarm and disable as much as possible, kill only if necessary. We need them alive to talk. Any questions?"

"No sir!" voices rang through the room.

"Good. I'll be with the backup team if things get out of hand. Fate and fortune go with you. First team, at your leisure."

Tina took a deep breath, looked over to Russo, and they Aparated towards the alleyway that they'd been staking out from for the past several weeks. When they got their bearings and let their eyes adjust to the dark of New York's wee hours, they snuck towards their destination.

It was gratifying to see so much slow paperwork and legwork turn into something tangible. They'd finally found where the contraband Gigglewater was being brewed, in a crudely-hidden fourth floor of a seven-story juice manufacturing plant. Russo had identified one of the conspirators by going undercover with the mafia buyers, and Tina had identified two more through diligent midnight stakeouts. None had prior criminal records, so it would probably be an in-and-out closed case, the backup teams there just to satisfy Mr. Graves's (admittedly well-deserved) paranoia. Really, Tina and Russo could probably have the whole thing taken care of before anyone else managed to orient themselves in the building.

A simple mental _Alohamora_ got them through the factory front door. They'd previously determined that this factory had no nightwatchman—probably why the conspirators had chosen it—so they tiptoed as quietly as they could in the dark towards the enclosed staircase. The third floor landing, that was their holding spot. Close enough they could get to the door within fifteen seconds of getting the go from the Office, but far enough that they weren't immediately at risk for running into the conspirators. Tina had only ever seen them come in from the roof, after all; they wouldn't think to check the third floor.

They reached their holding spot laughably quickly compared to their initial estimate, and as expected, they heard faint sounds of irregular movement from the floor above. In the dim light that filtered through the filthy stairwell window, Tina looked to her colleague for confirmation. Russo nodded curtly, and Tina tapped her wand tip to a bracelet on her left wrist. There now. They were officially ready. There was nothing to do but wait for the other teams to reach their jump spots in neighboring buildings.

Tina tried not to focus on the sounds coming from the fourth floor above them. There was activity there, that was still certain. Plenty of feet walking around, barrels being rolled. She realized with a sinking feeling that with that amount of noise, there were probably more than three people involved. Oh well. This was why they had backup, so impetuous Aurors like her didn't get in way over her head without warning. Russo seemed to be getting nervous too, tapping his fingers rhythmically on his wand handle. Russo _never_ got nervous...but then again, she'd never done a raid with Russo as her partner before.

After what felt like an age, Tina's left wrist suddenly felt hot, and a quick glance down at her wrist verified what she already knew; it was time to move in. Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed up the stairs, sticking to the edges where they were less likely to creak, until she got to the fourth floor. The spells that hid the floor really only hid the door to No-Maj eyes, but Tina could see it clear as day.

_Well, here goes nothing._

Brandishing her wand, she blasted the door off is hinges and ran inside, flinging stunning spells ahead of her as she prayed she'd get through this all right.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Scamander,_

_I'm writing to you instead of Tina because something horrible has happened. The Auror office staged a raid_ ~~_yesterday_~~ _on the 2nd on what they thought was a ring of bootleggers but turned out to be a hideout for Grindelwald's people. Tina managed to take out a great many of them, but she was very badly hit by the curses. They're working very hard to pull her through the worst of it, but recovery isn't yet certain._

 _Mr. Scamander, I know you haven't been acquainted with Tina for very long, but if you like her as much as I think you do, please come_ _now_ ; _I can assure you she would appreciate nothing better. They've moved her to Steward Memorial Hospital in Albany, 48-½ Hudson, room 213. I've given Reception your name; they'll let you through._

_Yours very anxiously,_

_Queenie Goldstein_

* * *

On the sixth of August in rural Ontario, a man was throwing what appeared to be perfectly-good meat into what would appear to most people to be a perfectly-empty clearing when a large owl in very bad shape landed directly in front of him. Surprised, he put down his bucket and retrieved the owl's payload, a letter on unfamiliar pink-tinted parchment. He looked puzzled at the address, then understanding hit him, and he tore open the letter. In the few seconds it took for him to read the brief missive, the confusion drained from his face to leave him stark white with shock.

When he moved at last, it was like a rubber band had snapped. He tore across the clearing, racing through the woods until he got to a cozy-looking cabin. He ignored the older woman and the young man who were working in the front garden and barrelled into the house.

"Isis!"

His eyes darted around the parlor, which was empty but for a few puffskeins and a kneazle. He moved to the kitchen (three Bowtruckles and a handful of doxies), then the bathroom.

"Isis!"

A melodic whistle came from above, and the man dashed back to the parlor and climbed the rickety staircase to the bedrooms so quickly the wood rattled. At last, he skidded to a stop in front of a large red-gold bird, who regarded him with regal curiosity.

"Isis," he panted, "I'm so sorry to have to ask this of you, but I desperately need your help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I'm ending this story with a cliff-hanger. However, if it isn't uploaded yet, I should be uploading the first chapter of the sequel "A Good Man Is Hard To Find" in less than an hour along with a short tie-in, "Vera's Girls", so you won't have to wait long. I recommend reading "Vera's Girls" first, but either way will make sense.


End file.
